Fallentes Insula
by OfSilveryFeathers
Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late? Slash/Yaoi.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England.

Pairing: unknown.

A/N: Hello! This is the my first fan-fiction and I'm kinda nervous. Yeah, hum, oh! I am not an English speaker, didn't even finish my English course yet, and I don't have a Beta, so - please - if you see any mistakes kindly forgive me and point them out so I can correct them at a later date. All this boring stuff aside, have fun! I hope you all will enjoy This as much as I had fun writing.

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine. :)

Words count: 2560

(oOo)

As soon as he heard his answer he had to sit down once again. 'No'. He tried to ignore the painful throbbing of his heart. A bitter smile formed on his lips.

He should have known.

(oOo)

It was lunch time, meaning he only had one brief hour before having to go back to the conference room and resume the meeting from where they stopped and, consequently, to America screaming he was the hero, France being his usual frog-self and avoiding brother-dear Ireland. Sighing, he got up. All the other nations had already fled the conference room, disappearing to who knew where. Rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension there, he tried to remember what he had for breakfast.

Toast with butter, poached eggs, back bacon, baked beans and black pudding accompanied by tea. Closing his eyes he deemed it okay to skip lunch, he wasn't hungry anyway. So, instead of going to the little café down the street like he normally did when the meetings were held in London, he would walk around the building. Not really good, but better than waste his time by sitting alone on the conference room, moping around.

His footsteps were light, soundless, a skill he learned and mastered long ago, when he was still a child and running away or hiding from his brothers attacks. Scotland, Ireland and Wales weren't the best brothers one could have. And they only got worse after their mothers demise.

_But then again_, he thought, _the old days were different_. Rougher. The stronger survived, the weak perished. Blood ties meant little.

(_The forest was cold, unfriendly, and the night had already fallen, making the place that much more scary. Had he had a choice, he wouldn't have entered it at all. However, knowing his brothers had been right behind him and being barely able to dodge most of their arrows and rocks, he run to the protection the dense foliage could offer him. Now, perched at the top of one tree, he waited with baited breath, hoping his brothers wouldn't find him. And with each call for his name - they insisted on calling him 'Albion', although mockingly, and with barely concealed malice in their voices -, with each footstep and broken twig or the rustle of leaves, he held his breath, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He couldn't understand why they were all so mean, had he done something wrong? Hurt them so much that he deserved to be hunted down and beaten? Why did-_)

Shaking his head to whisk such thoughts away, he quickened his step.

As he walked through the crème hallway a familiar annoying laugh, coming from one room two doors down on his left, made him stop momentarily. His thick eyebrows twitched in irritation, this person was one of the last he wanted to meet. So, to save himself one aggravating confrontation, he decided to ignore it and go his merry way. This is, until he heard his name being mentioned.

His black dress shoes came to a halt right in front of the aforementioned door.

He normally tried to stay as far away as he could from him. God knew how much just the sound of his voice, with that infuriating accent of his that he took so much pried in, irritated him. But... He heard his name, pronounced in his terrible language yes, but his name nonetheless. And like hell he would pass such opportunity!

Green eyes narrowing, he crept as close as he could to the door, careful to not be discovered: should this happen, he could already hear the mocking that would follow. And he preferred to spare himself such ridicule.

"Why are you here again, mon ami? Didn't Germany already prohibited you from participating, or even coming close, to the meetings?" Asked France, curious.

"Kesesese. As if the awesome me would follow orders from anyone!" Laughed Prussia, a small chirp from Gilbird - which was hovering over the albinos head like usual - following suit, as if agreeing with its master statement.

Rolling his eyes, he leaned closer to the door. He was sure he heard his name! And what could the frog and his two friends - because he could see Spain munching happily on a tomato -, be talking about that involved him? Certainly nothing nice, but what?

France, from what he could see, shook his head exasperatedly, muttering something too low for him to hear, but that earned a laugh from Spain and a glare from Prussia. "Anyway, back to the topic we were discussing, did anyone else see Angleterres face?" He asked, snickering, barely able to contain himself.

"Sí." Answered Spain, his eyes glowing with mirth as he remembered the face of his long time rival "Why was the bastardo so frustrated, though?" He asked curiously before going back to his tomato.

"Ohonhonhonhon" France laughed, one hand covering his mouth slightly." It seems our dear Angleterre invited America to have lunch with him and was turned down! Quite fast, I heard!" He snickered, blue eyes shining with amusement.

Prussia laughed loudly, almost doubling over himself "He is so unawesome!"

England hastily put a good distance between himself and the door, as if burned. He didn't hear Spains reaction, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out. And although he was peeved by what he heard, to the point of almost knocking the door down, ready to show those three idiots what a former pirate could do, he was also embarrassed that they knew America had turned him down. Not only that, but he had overheard a private conversation, to go inside there would be assuming he heard eavesdropped on them - Humiliating. And he knew how the three felt about him, how he was their favorite target. So it wasn't a surprise they were making fun of him, but... It was like rubbing salt on a gash.

He had wanted to talk to the younger nation, just that - nothing more. To rebuild the bridges long burned. Their relationship had been getting better with the years, and he thought that maybe it would do them some good to talk, maybe try to be friends. But America had said no, flat out turned down his invitation. And it had hurt. More so because he turned his back and didn't look back. It reminded him of a similar situation, although the circumstances were very different.

(_The rain didn't lessen, it kept on falling, as if cleaning the battlefield. He thanked God, because this way no one could see his tears. His sobbing, however, wouldn't stop. And he stood there; tall, his blond hair damp, looking down on him with pained blue eyes. The last words he said before leaving, they were like a dagger to his heart. He just wanted to keep crying, sobbing on the ground until the end of times. His little brother was gone, he left, abandoned him. For the first time he cursed his immortality. For the first time he wished he had no heart. He kept sited on the mud until one of his soldiers came to him and helped him back to the camp were he was patched up and the day after, he left the thirteen colonies. He kept looking to the mass of land as his ship got farther and farther away, until it disappeared from his sight. His last words kept playing again and again on his mind. 'You used to be so...big'_)

England breathed in shakily, unshed tears burning his eyes and a lump in his throat. The past hurt, the present hurt. He was always hurting, not that anyone seemed to notice or care, if they did. Wanting to get away as fast as he could before he was discovered, he ran. Closing his eyes in an attempt of stoping the tears, he trusted his feet to carry him through the already well know hallways.

He was grateful the world meeting was being held in His capital this month and that today was the last of the seven days of its' duration. He didn't think he would've been able to stand another day in the same room as The Bad Friends Trio or America.

It was bound to be awkward with America, at least on his part: the lad probably has already forgotten how uncomfortable they were after his rejection. And it would be both embarrassing and infuriating to be in the same room as those three git, who would probably cluster together and snigger or outright make comments which would make him uncomfortable.

After a few minutes of running, he finally stopped. And recognizing where he was, he turned right and entered in the first room he saw. The stark white tiles made him squint his eyes at first, but as soon as he got used to them he made his way to one of the many sinks the bathroom had to offer.

Instead of opening the faucet he looked up, his green eyes locking on the reflexion on the mirror. A saddened smile graced his lips for a few seconds before he bent over the sink, turned the silver wheel to the right, and begun washing his face. It wouldn't do for him to show up with a blotched face or red eyes. It wouldn't do for him to have any less than an impeccable appearance when in the presence of the other countries.

After using paper towels to dry his face, he gave a weak smile to his reflection. His nose was slightly pinkish, but he could attribute that to the cold autumn air. All in all he was good to go. Or as good as he was going to get.

The sound of footsteps outside, however, sent him in a frenzy, and he quickly hid in one of the cabins. Sitting on top of the toilet and drawing his knees to his chest, he asked himself what the bloody hell he was doing. And when he decided to leave his little hideout, two voices he knew very well came within earshot.

I'm turning into a creepy git, he thought.

"And that was how I, the Hero, defeated the zombies!" The boisterous voice of the one and only United States of America, exclaimed. Probably swinging his arms up and down in his excitement, thought England fondly. "Hey, hey, Japan!"

"Hai, America-kun?" Asked the always polite Japan.

"Do you want to have a horror movie marathon?!" America asked, his blue eyes wide and hopeful as he stared at his friend.

"Won't you get scared, America-kun?" Japan pointed out a bit hesitantly.

"The Hero doesn't get scared!" America exclaimed before laughing obnoxiously. His voice echoed in the bathroom, making England wince.

The sound of water running alerted England of where they probably were. A few booths down of his own. He was safe. The small confident smile he had on his lips, however, was wiped out with Japans next words.

"America-kun," He called, his voice a bit unsure "What it's that you and England-san talked that got you so... Agitated?" His eyes were anywhere but America when he blurted it out "I'm sorry! It's not polite to ask-"

"Heh! It's alright. He just asked to have lunch with me." America said laughing, as if the mere though of having lunch with England was funny. The green eyed man strengthened the grip on his knees, knuckles losing their color gradually and turning white "He is such a weirdo sometimes."

Seeing Japan was giving him an inquisitive look, he rapidly tried to explain, "I mean, he wants to have lunch with me out of the blue? And normally he just gives me his burned scones and disappears, ya know? It's strange!"

"Ah! I see." Nodded Japan, his face serious "England-san truly is a complicated person to understand."

"Hahahhaha! He is isn't him?" America laughed, blue eyes sparkling with mirth, a wide grin on his face.

"Aa." Was Japans only answer, but a small smile lingered on his lips - not that England could see.

A few minutes passed with the two of them exchanging meaningless chitchat, basically about horror movies and America being the hero, before they left the bathroom. Only when the sound of their voices was muffled by the door did England let his legs fall to the floor.

Tears tickled down his face, falling on the fisted hands on his lap. His body trembled slightly and he wanted nothing more than to scream, however, his manners stopped such crude (on his opinion) actions. He kept crying silently, small little gasps of breathe escaping his tightly pressed lips from time to time. An idiot, he couldn't help but think, I am an idiot. Did I really though I could've had friends? Who would want to be friends with me? I am an idiot, a clueless idiot.

It was too much. It had always been too much, but these days, recently, everything seemed to be getting worse. Why couldn't he have a rest? Why couldn't he sleep without nightmares plaguing his mind? Why did his demons persecute him? When did it became so much harder to hold everything in...?

He remembered a phrase that he seemed unable to forget: "The sun always shine above the clouds"*. England was sure the sun lost its' brightness long ago and that above the heavy grey clouds, there was nothing besides darkness lurking around.

With a self depreciating smile on his face, he resisted the urge to laugh; the small gasps turned into big gulps for air and the silent tears not only made him choke, but they wouldn't stop. No matter how many times he cleaned them, they kept falling and falling. After some time he gave up, letting his head fall on his hands, fingers holding painfully onto his hair as he finally gave in and broke down.

(_"Shut up, black sheep of Europe!")_

*Paul F. Davis


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England.

Pairing: Unknown.

A/N: Hello! This is chapter 2, it was already half written when I posted the first one, hence why the fast update. I will try to make the updates every two weeks on saturday or sunday. I was really, really happy with the response I got! Thank you to all who faved, alerted or reviewed this story, it means the world to me! Cookies to you all! :3

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine! :)

Words count: 2,500

(italics inside brackets) = memory

**Warning: self-harm, curse words. **

(oOo)

He was sited back in his chair, back rigidly straight and shoulders tense. France, like he predicted, was making fun of him; from the obviously

exaggerated pitiful looks to outright asking him if he would like to have lunch someday, a small smirk lingering on his lips the whole bloody time. Spain and Prussia were, thankfully, occupied with more urgent matters, named, respectively, Romano, who kept screaming 'tomato bastard' and swinging towards the spaniard, and Germany, who discovered the albinos' disobedience and was chasing him. Grip tightening around the tea cup he held midair England breathed in deeply, inhaling the aromatic smell.

World meetings were always like that. Chaotic. Useless. Drinking a small sip of his Earl Grey, he frowned. He remembered a time when there weren't world meetings, when their actions weren't monitored and they did whatever they wanted, only reporting to their monarchs. And although these times where long gone, sometimes he couldn't help but miss them. Putting his cup down, he sighed, focusing solely on the bright amber liquid and letting his mind wander.

"England," Canada called for the third time, his voice soft and gentle as he tried to draw the attention of his former care taker. His hold on kumajirou (or was it kumakichi?) tightening as the blond kept looking to his tea, a far away look in his green eyes.

Amethyst eyes widened when the realization that England, the one that always payed attention and took careful and organized notes of everything, wasn't paying attention at all -or trying to throttle France-, sunk. "England," He tried once again, his voice tinged with worry. And when the result he was met with was the same as before he looked around, trying to find someone, anyone, who could - and would - help him.

He was struck speechless, however, when he looked down to verify if the brit was still out of sorts and found himself under the sole attention of cautious green eyes.

"Canada" England said as a way of greeting, finally noticing the presence of his former colony by his side. "What do you want lad?" He asked bemused, but Canada - after years of living with the man - could hear the small suspicion that lingered in his words, the cautiousness that lurked behind them.

Shaking his head and smiling sheepishly, happy that not only was the british willing to listen to him, but also that he didn't mistake him for America, he begun to talk with England about their countries trades agreements and the possibility of making new ones.

"Ah! So, I was thinking that as we already..." Canada said, his soft and gentle voice lost in the rambunctious conference room to all but England, who seemed, and truly was, eager to hear.

During his small speech he preened under the blonds' attention, feeling extremely content that someone besides Cuba - who still hit him sometimes when mistaking him for his brother - was spending time with him. Content enough that he forgot his worries about the brits' strange behavior. And didn't question how he recognized him so fast when during many decades he could barely remember him. No, all doubt evaporated from his mind due to Englands' gaze upon him and the soft smile playing on the brits' lips. Canada asked himself if this was how a child felt like when treated with care by a father, and, if so, why would America give it up.

(oOo)

When the alarm rung at 18:00 signalizing the end of the meeting and, consequently, the end of the week-long meetings, the nations were all too happy to leave. Some would stay behind for one or two more days to enjoy the cloudy city, but most would catch flights on the same night to go back to their countries. Alone - as was Romania's case - or in small groups - like the nordics - all left, and the conference room was empty but for one person. Getting up slowly, England faced the small room, the coaster, with the tea cup on top of it, held in his right hand. Gathering his papers with his free hand he glanced at the agreements Canada proposed (He would have to discuss them with Cameron, but knowing his prime minister he would accept, they were, after all, quite promising). The brit chuckled humorlessly, he had been careless - it was a close call.

"Too close" He muttered, lips forming a sneer as he thought about his slip. It was the second one in the measly interval of a few hours. Gentleman weren't supposed to make so many mistakes, and to let go of their public façades was an enormous one.

The sound of porcelain cracking echoed through the room as the blond left, his green eyes hard and guarded as he stared ahead of him, his strides powerful and fast, the face devoid of emotions. He seemed different from the short tempered man he normally acted like on world meetings; the one who would scold America for his poor (on his opinion) English and fight France every few hours, no, one could say he almost resembled his old self.

(oOo)

The television was turned on, the weather forecaster voice a low murmur in the background of the silent room. Sited, with his right leg over his left knee, was England, one hand holding a needle as the other gripped tightly the embroidery hoop on his lap. In black he had already embroidered 'God Save the Queen', now, under it, he was giving the finishing touches on the crowns' coat of arms while humming an old lullaby. Smiling sadly, he couldn't help but think the only reason he sung it now was because of a certain canadian.

(_The child in his arms slept peacefully. He rocked his arms back and forth, afraid that should he stop the child would awake. It had taken a long time to calm the little boy down, to make him understand the situation. That he was a british colony, not a french one - not anymore, at least. England sneered, the bloody frog deserved all pain he inflicted upon him. The lad, however, didn't. So he would make the transition as smooth as possible for him. Smiling at the disheveled boy in his arms, he sung._

_Frère Jacques, _

_frère Jacques,_

_Dormez-vous? _

_Dormez-vous?_

_The words tasted vile as they left his mouth, but as the corner of the boys lips turned upwards in a soft smile he kept on singing, happy that maybe - just maybe - he could became family to him._

_Sonnez les matines! _

_Sonnez les matines!_

_Ding, dang, dong. _

_Ding, dang, dong._

_A sigh escaped his lips as he put the boy down, his hair was disheveled, probably from all the running he did earlier, and his clothes were a bit worse for wear. With a bit of anger he noted how much the young child resembled his enemy, that bearded frog. Huffing and crossing his arms over his chest, he gently smiled to the sleeping form on the bed. "Sleep tight, Canada,"._)

The screeching sound of the alarm clock on the kitchen rung, startling him out of his day-dream. Hurriedly he made his way to the kitchen, the smell of burned food making him groan in annoyance. When the oven's door was opened and black smoke blew on his face, he coughed, squinting his eyes to see the tray. While trying to find a tea towel, he felt the skin of his hand being sliced open. Hissing, he quickly recoiled the hand and fisted it, trying to stop the blood loss.

"Bloody hell," he cursed, his eyes watering and nose twitching irritably because of the smoke.

Beyond annoyed, he simply put his unharmed hand inside the oven and grabbed the tray, removed it and threw it on top of the stove before kneeing the door, successfully closing the oven. The smoke clearing around him, he inspected the damage on his appliance first. The white stove had scorch marks on its' sides and there were smudges of black and grey, the food was overcooked, but he was sure it was good. At least edible. Finally, he looked at his hands. One bright red and with a prickling sensation, the other with a painful throb and carmine red on, and falling from, it.

Cursing under his breath he glanced once towards his scones (perfect edible ones at that) before dashing to the bathroom, pressing the tea towel he tried to grab earlier on his more injured hand to stop the bleeding.

"Damn it" He spat out when he realized blood was falling on the floor and, more importantly, on his knew carpet "Blood stains are the worst,"

As soon as he opened the bathroom door, he threw the towel on the pristine white floor and bent over the washbasin , opening the tap hastily, ignoring completely the pain - he had had worse.

The sight of blood falling on the white porcelain shouldn't be enticing, shouldn't be beautiful, but to England, on that moment, there was nothing more eye-catching. He shuddered, a comforting feeling, one he hadn't felt in a long time, settling in his heart. He almost felt free.

"Almost... But not quite." He whispered as he looked at his cleaned hand, the cut had closed and in its place there was a pinkish scar that he knew wouldn't be there came the morning. Fisting his hand until the knuckles were white, he watched closely as some veins jumped invitingly.

Looking up, he stared at his reflexion. Green eyes, thick eyebrows, blond hair, fair skin. That was it. That was what everyone saw. But he knew his health was deteriorating, had been for a couple of years, maybe decades. Before his eyes had been an acidic green, not the dull and darkened green that stared back at him, his skin a healthy alabaster instead of the sickly pale he now had.

They surely wouldn't notice something so small.

He was sure they wouldn't. Not even his Prime Minister, not even his beloved Queen. He would make sure no one would notice a thing. It would be his little secret, like so many others he still had - his and no one else.

Chuckling, he opened one drawer with his left hand, that although a bit red didn't hurt anymore, and removed a small silver object. With a smile he gently pried it open, blade easily sliding out of the handle. When the edge touched his wrist, he sighed.

Freedom at last, he though before opening a small, shallow, cut on the inside of his forearm.

(oOo)

'"Let's go, Matthew!" He screamed, running as fast as he could towards the double deck bus, a wide grin on his face. As if he never had entered one; truth was, he just loved the damn things. To him, the british buses just had a flair that all the others around the world couldn't hope to match.

"W-wait! Am- Alfred!" Canada, also known as Matthew when in public, called. But his brother, as always, didn't seem to hear him. "Wh- why can't he just stop for one second?!" He exclaimed, looking down at kumajiro (Was it?) on his arms.

"Who?" The polar bear asked looking up.

"Ca-" He begun to answer, but stopped as soon as he realized what he was going to say. Sighing, his shoulders slumped.

"Matthew!" America screamed once again, clearly losing his patience, if ever had any. "I will go without you!"

"Wait!" He answered, running as fast as he could on his brothers direction.

He was sure he was forgetting something, and it probably was important as well! What was it?!

"MATTHEW!"

"Coming!"

"Who?"

Just what had he forgotten?

(oOo)

"Lukas?" Denmark whispered "What is the problem? You are quiet, I mean, quieter than the normal...?"

"..."

"Lukas? Hey! I'm sure a bit of booze will make everything better!" He suggested brigthly.

"..."

"Okay" He said sullenly "Don't have any. Ignore me; see If I care."

When no answer was forthcoming, the Dane turned to the flight assistant and ordered a bottle of beer.

Norway stayed quiet, his head going a mile per minute.

What could the troll be so worried about?

"LUKAS!" The dane whined.

"Yes, Matthias?" He answered to the Dane's happiness.

(oOo)

The process cleansed him, as if it removed his pain, his grief, his anger. It brought him peace at the cost of something as small, as banal, as blood.

The blood run lazily down his arm, as if a snake uncoiling itself. Green eyes admired the process and shaky lips formed a smile. For a few more minutes he just stayed there, sited next to a pool of his own blood.

Finally getting up, he winced slightly at the stinging feeling coming from the two small cuts he had made, the second deeper than the first. The first thing he did was clean the razor, the evidence, then he cleaned his arm, the blood disappearing on the drain, lastly he cleaned all the blood on the bathroom, floor and sink, the kitchen and the hallway before washing the cloth he used.

Sighing contently, he went to the kitchen and made himself comfortable on the table, a cup of tea, biscuits and his scones in front of him and Hamlet on his hands.

Smiling softly to the bandage he had wrapped on his arm, he let himself relax for the first time in years. And, happily munching on a scone, he begun to read, letting himself get lost in the enchanting words of William Shakespeare. The thoughts that what he had just done was, somehow, unhealthy for him, that this could be dangerous, were shoved to the back of his mind, not to be looked at. He didn't want to know, he did not care. Putting his half eaten scone down, he deemed himself full and only occasionally would drink a sip of his tea for the many hours to come.

(oOo)

**# Question! USUK or poll for AnotherUK?**


	3. Chapter 3

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England.

Pairing: Unknown.

A/N: Hello! This is chapter 3! Seriously, hum, I actually had to run against time to be able to post it here. So, maybe, I will change the end (but probably not). I would like to thank a few of my reviewers: Lady Prussia of Awesomeness, InavaderPey, alguien22792, Andre, MMOliveSaints, flavinja, d1g, B, Anastasia, anonymous, guest, beastie, corin and Gal. Thank you all for your support. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :)

Chapter Edited! But nothing drastic.

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine! :)

Words count: 3600

(italics inside brackets) = memory

**Warning: self-harm (I swear, this is the last chapter it will happen), curse words.**

(oOo)

Half sited in his king sized bed he peered at the unblemished skin of his forearm, looking for an inexistent flaw. Touching lightly the place where two small scars were supposed to be, he sighed. Letting his body fall on the comfortable pillows behind him, he ignored the low growling sounds that came from his stomach - he may be hungry, but he didn't want to eat, if that made any sense at all. Groaning, he tuned around a bit on the spacious mattress before settling with his belly down.

Green eyes begun to drop slowly as the sound of the rain outside lulled him into sleep, his breathes slowed down, became more controlled, his chest rose and fell slowly. Closing his eyes, he went to sleep hoping against hope that neither nightmares nor haunting memories of his past would make themselves known during his sleeping hours.

(oOo)

He couldn't help but stare at her hands. And as they shuffled through some official papers, he realized how wrinkled they had become. They hadn't been like this ten years ago, twenty years ago. He could still remember the day she was crowned Queen of England - of the United Kingdom, the day she became his Queen. And his brothers as well, of course.

Smiling softly, he looked up. A small frown and slightly jutted out bottom lip marred her otherwise perfectly composed face, but England choose not to comment on it. He actually remembered seeing the same expression on her six year old self when denied chocolate cookies before dinner. The corner of his lips turned upwards and he chuckled lightly, catching her attention.

"What is it, Mr. Kirkland, that you find so funny?" She asked while removing the glasses from the bridge of her nose and resting them against her collarbone, one string attached to the temple tips making it hang on her neck. A single brow arched and blue eyes narrowed on him when an answer wasn't forthcoming. "Do I have to repeat myself, ?"

Smile still lingering on his lips, he answered. "Memories, Your Majesty."

If she was surprised by his revelation she did not show. Her face remained as stoic as ever, but England was able to see the softening of her eyes and the very slight slump of her shoulders, the latter corrected immediately as soon as she realized her err.

She put her pen down, obviously more interested in him than on her paperwork. "What kind of memories, if you do not mind me asking, Mr. Kirkland?"

"Small things, really, Ma'am" He said dismissively, straightening his shoulders as the sound of someone knocking on the door came to his ears.

She threw him a shrewd look; assessing him, analyzing. He stopped the urge to squirm under it. "Ma'am?"

"I heard you have spent some time with Kate."

It wasn't as much of a question as it was a statement. "I appreciate the company of the young Duchess. And I must confess, Ma'am," Here he stopped to carefully choose his next words "She reminds me very much of Her."

The lines of her face hardened, deepened, as if only the mention of Her was a sour topic, and best left quiet. "Arthur."

She was tired, he knew that. Maybe no one else could see, but he could - he did. The thought he was one more burden to her came to his mind. And lodged there.

"Ma'am?"

Her eyes pinned him down. "You have lost weight,"

"Is there something bothering you?" She asked, worriedly, England noticed, "Arthur?"

The usage of his first name surprised him. She normally referred to him as Mr. kirkland or England these days. Arthur, she hadn't called him Arthur in a long time. He remembered a time he had been 'Awthuw' and wide blue eyes looked up at him, begging him 'Up,' and 'Cookies'. He missed these days, just like he missed many more. He pondered telling her about his more personal struggles and his doubts. But then he remembered their relationship hadn't been the same since Her death, and 1997 happened, and even before that there was so much he had lost, so much under her reign. It was illogical, but it was how he felt. "No, Ma'am."

He had upset her. He knew. And he felt awful. He took a step in her direction, ready to tell her everything, 'spill the guts' - putting it vulgarly. He wanted someone he could trust, someone he could confide, and if not his Queen than who? He wanted the friendly relationship they had before, the same he had with her father, King George VI, and Victoria and Elizabeth I, he wanted-

"You may go," She said, putting her glasses back on the top of her nose, blue eyes turning almost immediately back to the many papers laid before her.

He came to a halt. The light in his eyes dimmed, green eyes became duller, his mouth snapped shut. He bowed with his neck, his mouth opened and closed a few times, uncertain of what to say. Using his tongue to moisturize his chapped lips he stuttered "If you would excuse me, Your Majesty," before he turned on his heels and prepared to leave.

As his hand closed around the golden door knob, his name was called. Green eyes met blue. "You should come around more often, Mr. Kirk- Arthur." He smiled gently at her and chivalrously ignored the smallest dust of pink on her cheeks. His heart fluttered happily.

"I will, Ma'am." He answered.

"Tea at 15:00, tomorrow?" She asked. As soon as he nodded, her gaze was no longer on him, but on the neglected workload in front of her. "Could you tell whoever is at the door to come in?"

"Yes, Ma'am" He answered dutifully, bowing once again on his neck, and then leaving, only stopping on his way out to rely Her Majesty's message to the man outside her office. Glancing at his wrist watch he quickened his step with a sigh, he still had to talk with Cameron about the canadian's proposal and probably discuss a few things about the last world meeting that the Prime Minister could be interested in, not that there was anything major, there never was.

(oOo)

The good humor he had in the morning vanished into thin air as soon as he arrived at his Prime Minister office's.

He held in a sigh. It just wouldn't do to sigh in front of his Prime Minister, but Cameron could be so tiring sometimes. Well, at least they would pursue the canadian's proposal, they were beneficial.

"I'm not saying the reports are bad, per se," He said, hands gesticulating as if they helped him explain "However, you could do better! It's not possible that-"

England knew that by 'reports' he meant all the work he delivered that was somehow related to the World Conference. And he had already heard it before. Actually every time he had to give a report in, he heard it. Cameron seemed unsatisfied with all of his reports.

"Arthur!" He shouted, red coloring his face. "Could you, please, stop day dreaming and pay attention!"

It was more an order than a request. And it stung England's pride.

"I am listening, sir." Was his dry reply.

"Oh!" He exclaimed, England not failing to notice the sarcasm behind the simple exclamation "So you wouldn't mind if I asked you to repeat what I said?"

"Of course not, sir." He answered, not caring to hide the bite in his words "You're complaining that the reports seem to be somewhat vague and incomplete, however, I can't see what else I should report that would have a significant value, sir."

Cameron was obviously frustrated. His face lost all it is color and he seemed to be seething. But England did not stop his verbal slaughter. Cameron was the first who doubted how capable he was regarding his job, his duty. And bloody hell! He shouldn't have to justify himself!

"You would like me to report that America kept shouting he was the hero and ate 23 hamburgers? That North Italy made pasta before having a siesta in the middle of the meeting? That Russia scared the hell out of Lithuania? That Germany had to hunt Prussia down!? Tell me, sir," The honorific practically spit out of his mouth "How all of these are relevant matters to the country and will happily comply with you. I will write all reports from now on with these abysmally important details that I seem to keep forgetting!"

Cameron glared at England, he would not stand to be treated in such a way.

"Out of my sight. Now!"

He needn't be told twice. With a firm scowl on his face he left the office. The scowl, however, was quickly replaced by a broken expression when he accidentally heard a confession from Cameron. Bitterly, he had to agree, he thought the same as his Prime Minister and, recently, this would be a first.

"Why the bloody hell do we have a representation of our nation if not only is he cheeky and disrespectful but also does nothing but drink tea?"

(oOo)

He had forgotten, but now he remembered: There had been something wrong with England. And he wanted to know what, why and if he could help. No,not if he could, but how he could. A determined glint entered his amethyst eyes.

He watched his brother discussing with the Harold's lady with attention, waiting for either to snap (Really, couldn't his brother just take the game? Did it really matter that it wasn't an 'special edition'? Unfortunately, yes, it seemed to matter.) , at the same time his fingers practically danced over the LCD screen of his phone, dialing the well known number, lips moving in synch with each digit.

"Hello," He said quietly "It's Matthew, Matthew Williams,"

The silence on the other side of the line was telling, the person obviously did not remember him or, at least, his human name. Covering his mouth with his hand, he whispered his real name. The obnoxious laugh from the person he was talking to made him cringe and put some distance between the phone and his ear. "Yes, yes, it's alright."

"... Yes. Look... No. That's not i-"

Sighing, he let the person on the other side go on a rampage, barely understanding anything the other was saying due to the overload of slangs he wasn't used to, as the only one he cared enough to learn beside his brother's was England's.

He snapped. "Shut it!"

"I need your help," He said, happy that the other had finally shut up long enough for him to talk. "I know... Really? No... I mean- This is not the point!" He exclaimed, and when laughter erupted from the other side, he blushed, clearly visible on his white parlor "I need your help, and no, it's not for that. I think there's something wrong with Arthur."

Yeah, England's human name he would remember... Well, Canada sighed, he couldn't really fault his 'brother', could he? The other was absolutely crazy about his (or would it be their's?) mom.

The silence that followed his statement wasn't the same as before. It was heavy, charged with tension. And then came the accusations. "I would- I would've told you earlier if you hadn't let your mouth run wild!" He snarled angrily. How dare-! His teeth grinding against each other, he decided to end the conversation. "I can't talk anymore, Alfred is coming. I have to go now, good by- No. I... I don't know what is wrong,"

Grabbing the bags on his feet, he looked at the clock on the opposite wall. 23:04 PM, they had to go home and rest, the next day would be a tiring one. He sighed unhappily at the thought his brother would be up late playing his new video-game and, consequently, he would be as well, before concentrating again on his conversation. "Listen, I KNOW there is something wrong with him. I just wanted a bit of help, if you are unwillin- Dammit! Are you going to help or n- Japan? I had the impression they weren't so close anymore. Gibraltar, France, Prussia, Spain... Okay. Thank you."

Closing the phone and putting it back on his jacket, he met his brother, who was already impatient. He now had names, but he really didn't know what to do with them. He would uncover whatever it was that saddened England, his Papa,of this he was sure. And he wouldn't be the only one looking for answers for much longer if he knew that person as well as he thought. And he did. After all, that person would never let his beloved motherland to suffer.

(oOo)

The room was nicely decorated; brown, red and white seemed to be the predominant colors and every, if not all, small details were either silver or black.

"But, why?" He whined, giving his brother his best puppy eyes. "I wanna see Iggy~!"

It was times like these that made the Canadian wonder which was worse: work or vacations with America. Sometimes it would be the latter, other the former. Unfortunately, today was the former.

Already feeling the beginnings of a migraine, he sighed. "We can't, America, England is busy. He doesn't have time to put up with us today."

It was already the third or fifth time he was explaining the same thing. And, as always, the American refused to understand. He kept on whining and whining, repeating he wanted to see Iggy over and over again. Being a superpower had spoilt him; he didn't care about other opinions and schedules, most of the time was about what he wanted.

"America," He said, hands up in a placating gesture "I will call England and see if he can have us tomorrow, okay?"

He hoped his brother would accept the offer, otherwise he feared they would find themselves under wrath of a tired former pirate. And he actually preferred a whining superpower than an enraged ex-pirate, at least one of England's caliber. So when he heard his brother's enthusiastic agreement (His signature beaming smile and thumbs up), he felt relieved.

Grabbing the phone he called the numbers he knew by heart, smiling slightly when a slightly drowsy voice picked up. "Hello, England? It's Canada,"

"Hm, would it be okay if we visited you tomorrow? Ah! ... We as in America and I. Yes, of course. Thank you." He said and when England hung up, he whispered "Au revoir, Papa."

Turning around to tell his brothers the good news, he found him completely and undeniably... Hooked on his console. Screams of 'YAHOO!', 'GO, MARIO GO!' and 'THE HERO WON'T LOSE' soon were filling the room. Canada sighed. His brother was... Otherworldly, to put it lightly. Sitting beside the American, he didn't complain about the occasional jab he received or the gradual loss of his hearing capacity. No, just the knowledge he would be seeing his Pap- England was enough to make him content.

"Ouch! America!"

"Sorry dude!"

"Stop moving so much!"

"But I have to save Princess Peach!"

"Sto- Ouch! You did that on purpose!"

"No! I didn't! I swear! And Hero's don't lie! HAHHAHAH"

"**AMERICA**!"

(oOo)

The office was empty but for her, seated in her chair, white hair neatly combed even if she spent almost half the day indoors. Her fingers tapped lightly on the wooden table and she had a thoughtful expression on her face. Huffing, as if the mere thought she had doubted her decision was insulting, she reached for the phone. She had to look inside a little booklet, scowling slightly and berating herself for forgetting something so easy to remember. She blamed it on age and made the call.

"Hello?" A gruff, drowsy voice greeted her.

"Scotland?"

"Who- Your Majesty." All drowsiness left the voice. "How can I serve you?"

"Arthur... There is something wrong with him and I don't know what it is." Putting her elbow on her table and resting her head on her right hand, she sighed. "I would... Appreciate if you could talk to him... Please, Alistair."

"I... Aye, Ma'am"

"Thank you."

She just hoped this was the correct course of action.

(oOo)

He was sited on the floor of his bathroom, again, leaning on the bathtub. On his left was a bloodied cloth, on his right a bottle of whiskey, Talisker, half full. Marring the inside of his left forearm was a cut, only one, but longer than the previous two he had made; it was the size of his index finger.

His words were already slurred as he sung, the music seemed appropriate.

"_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour _

_But heaven knows I'm miserable now _

_I was looking for a job, and then I found a job _

_And heaven knows I'm miserable now _

_In my life _

_Why do I give valuable time _

_To people who don't care if I live or die ?_"

A shot of whisk was drowned with one gulp. The glass was filled again, no ice. There would be no ice. He wanted to get drunk, really drunk. More drunk than ever. Bloody hell, an alcoholic coma would be welcomed now.

"_Two lovers entwined pass me by _

_And heaven knows I'm miserable now _

_I was looking for a job, and then I found a job _

_And heaven knows I'm miserable now _

_In my life _

_Oh, why do I give valuable time _

_To people who don't care if I live or die ?_"

His world was blurry. Was he already that far? It didn't seem so. But the pain was still there, he could still feel it. He didn't want to. America was coming tomorrow. America. The bloody boy! He educated the brat! Culture, language, laws! Everything! He gave everything to him!

"_What she asked of me at the end of the day _

_Caligula would have blushed _

_"You've been in the house too long" she said_

_And I (naturally) fled _

_In my life _

_Why do I smile _

_At people who I'd much rather kick in the eye ?"_

And damn it! His Prime Minister was furious with him! A giggle escaped his cracked lips. The funny thing was-! The funny thing was that they thought the same! That he was bloody useless to represent his people. He felt the taste of his own blood. And drowned the whiskey in his glass to wash it away. He would heal, physically at least.

He kept on singing drunkenly, wanting to forget, wishing the pain away...

"_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour _

_But heaven knows I'm miserable now _

_"You've been in the house too long" she said _

_And I (naturally) fled _

_In my life _

_Why do I give valuable time _

_To people who don't care if I live or die ?_"**

He had a parody of a smile on his face. The day had been terrible, horrible, awfully tiring. France, Spain, Prussia, America, his ungrateful colonies, his Prime Minister, damn them all to hell! The glass fell from his hand, breaking in thousand of pieces. Grabbing the near by knife he made a second cut.

The deeper he cut, the better it would be - he thought. The pain didn't register, and as soon as the blood begun to fall again, he felt great. With a smile he lost consciousness. His body fell to the side, barely keeping upright. A gentle smile on his lips as the impurity, as the wrongness, left his body.

(oOo)

Music (**)

Heavens know I'm miserable now - The Smiths

# About the USUK I am sure you noticed I removed it from the pairings, that happened because, well, he won't be paired with England. England pairing remains unknown... Sorta. Ok, I know. But it is secret ;)

# Does the thing of putting others in the chapter bores you guys? Do you hate it? Because... I can change it, you know? I just thought it would be more interesting if I gave them background and what not...

# can you guess who Canada was talking to? One cookie for the one who can guess right! :D


	4. Chapter 4

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England (Maybe).

Pairing: unknown.

A/N: Hello! This is chapter 4! I would like to thank a few of my reviewers: Lady Prussia of Awesomeness, InavaderPey, alguien22792, Andre, MMOliveSaints, flavinja, d1g, B, Anastasia, anonymous, guest, beastie, corin, Gal, CrazyHeyaliaFan, Julian and. ALSO, a huge thank to all who faved and followed the fic! Thank you all for your support. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :)

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine! :)

Words count: 3000

(italics inside brackets) = memory

**Warning: mentions of eating disorder, curse words.**

(oOo)

The once fluffy red carpet was already flat from his pacing and the windows were opened, even though it was a chilly morning, to let the smoke of his cigarette out. He had, however, covered Albion for precaution's sake. The morning sun shone upon his auburn hair, making the red strands look like vivid blood. Or like bright red tomatoes as Albion compare them to.

He cursed under his breath, one hand rearranging the cigarette on his mouth as he blew smoke out. His green eyes were half closed as he thought of his next course of action, trying to find the better way out of the mess his wee brother had somehow put himself in. His whole body tensed as a whimper came from the man slumped on the queen sized bed, with quick steps he was on his side, one hand carding through his blond hair.

Green eyes peered at the asleep face of his brother, softening as they took in the sorry state he was in and the deep frown on his face, the way his features were twisted in pain, in fear. "Albion," He called softly, siting on the bed, careful as to not wake the other man. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on top of the bedside table before using both hands to pull the man to his lap, mindful of always being gentle to not wake him up.

"Albion" He whispered in the man's ear, one of his hands massaging his scalp while the other rested on the man's thigh to held him securely in his position "Albion, it's only a nightmare." He whispered, afraid to talk louder, afraid that if he talked louder his voice would break, that he would crumble.

He never thought he might have found himself in a similar situation, not even in a hundred years - not even in a thousand. "I'm here, Albion,"

(_He had thought the Queen's worry had been for naught, he had wanted to believe so. To ease his own fears, however, he had bought one plane ticket to England on the same night of Her Majesty's call. And as soon as the plane landed and procedures were over, he took a cab to his wee brother's house._

_The door had been closed, but he knew were Albion put the spare key - It wasn't long before the scents of roses, tea and burned food assaulted his nose, he chuckled and lightened a cigarette. He believed there was nothing to worry, so he decided to have a quick look around the house before waking Albion up, asking to crash on his couch._

_Whenever he crashed in Albion's, the blond would complain about how loud or heavy his steps were. To spit him, he would practically march around the house, reveling in the man's annoyed glare, but also in the affection and amusement hidden in his green gaze. After years of fighting they had finally found a middle ground. And Scotland couldn't have been happier about it._

_That's when he heard a noise, in the silent brick house, however, every sound was clearly heard. And the "Bloody!" Albion had shouted hadn't being quiet, not by a long shot and then followed by a loud THUD. Sighing, he simply begun to walk towards the bathroom, the place where the noise had originated from. And when he opened the door, that's when he got worried._

_Because there was Albion, fallen on his right side, coughing and wheezing, his whole frame shaking. Such a pathetic sight of the once almighty British Empire. Throwing his cigarette on the ground and stepping on it - fully aware he would be scolded later - he walked slowly in the blond's direction. The broken glass on the ground and the empty bottle of whiskey, quickly giving him a fairly good idea of what happened. They would need to have a talk about his drinking habits, he thought._

_He collect the blond from the ground; putting one arm under his knees and the other on his back, slightly under his armpits. Ignoring - quite chivalrously in his opinion - the puke and dried blood that stained his shirt, he made his way to the master bedroom. He stared curiously at the opened window on the bathroom for a while, unsure of why Albion would let it opened when it was cold outside, but thinking nothing of it, he shrugged his shoulders and left._

_As he put the brit on the bed he realized one thing, something that had been bothering him since he took the slightly smaller man on his arms. He had been light, light as a feather. Frowning, he used one of his hands to run up and down the blond's sides a few times, his face losing it's color and eyes widening in horror. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12. He could count all his ribs. Dread filled him and in a desperate need to know, to make sure, he lifted Albion's already loose shirt. And he felt sick with what he saw, he questioned how he hadn't realized earlier. Not only was his rib cage slightly pronounced, but there was a clear dip between his thorax and abdomen. He quickly let go of the man and put his shirt down, backing away from the bed and taking another cigarette out and lighting it. He needed a drink, a strong one, but he didn't have courage to leave Albion alone, not anymore. He guessed this was another thing they would have to talk about. He wasn't looking forward to when the man woke up._)

"Albion... England," He whispered, his grip tightening around the man. He begun humming an old song, a song he had long forgotten the lyrics. And maybe there never were lyrics at all, but as Albion's face relaxed he kept on singing, resting his body against the headboard. He was still unsure of his next step, their next step. Frustrated, he hid his face on the crook of Albion's neck, breathing in deeply on his scent. It was the same it had been years, decades, centuries, millennia ago: like old woods and the salty sea mixed into one.

He thanked God Albion was fast asleep otherwise he was sure he would be teased endlessly. As a few tears escaped his green eyes, falling on the blond's collarbone he laughed mirthlessly. They always thought Albion was the level-headed one of the family, but, in the end, maybe, he was more fucked up than they all put together, but... But... They would get through this. Like they always did. There would be a few scars, there always were, but everything was going to be okay. They would keep an eye on the wee Albion, they would get him professional help. Everything was going to be just dandy, dammit. Hoarsely, he said "It better be,"

Looking once again at his wee Albion, he couldn't help but think of all the things he wanted to say, all the things he never said to him, hoping it wasn't too late. Smiling slightly, softly, he traced the features of the brit carefully, trying to memorize the already well know traces. "Tha gaol agam ort*, wee brother,"

(oOo)

The brothers almost run up to England's threshold because they could barely reign over their excitement in seeing the Brit, and also to avoid the light rain that begun to fall. There was a beaming smile on the pale lips of America as he urged Canada to walk faster, to keep up, which earned himself a knowing smile and small glare from Canada. "Come on~"

Huffing, the Canadian wondered why he still held hope his brother would act more like an adult and less like a five year old high on sugar. "Coming- Am-ALFRED!" He screamed, his amethyst eyes widening in alarm when he saw the American already on the porch with a fisted hand, ready to pound (Because America being America there was no way he would knock like a normal person) on the door. "WAIT!"

Surprised by his screaming, the American stopped what he was doing to look over his shoulder at Canada. "Mattie, no need to scream, you're going to anger Iggy even before we have a chance to say 'hi'," He chastised his twin, a grin plastered on his face as he took in the gasping mess that was his brother.

Canada, incredulous, could only stare, gapping, at America. "Wha-?"

And there was his brother's signature obnoxious laugh once again, his blue eyes shining with a amusement. And in that instant Canada understood America had been messing with him, even he wouldn't try his luck against England's wrath should his door be destroyed (Not again, at least). "Why you-!"

"Where the fuck ye damn brats think ye are?" Growled a gruff voice. "Shut your traps before I do it for ye*."

Surprised, they looked up, Canada paling as he recognized who was on England's front door and America becoming annoyed that he had to look up in the first place, and then a bit more when he didn't know who was the strange man was.

Tall, 6ft at least, broad shouldered and muscular, with red hair that fell to the nape of his neck in a tangled mess and bushy eyebrows; America had never seen him before, not even in world conferences.

"Who are you?" America asked, narrowing his eyes and balling his fists, ready to fight if needs be. The voice of his brother speaking up, however low it was, surprised him, even more so when he seemed to know who the red head was.

"Scotland? What are you doing here?"

"Whot? Can't I visit my wee brother?" The man asked, words venomous and emerald green eyes glaring at them. If looks could kill, they would be pushing up the daisies long ago. As it was, America glared back at the, now identified, Scot, while Canada simply looked confused - And worried.

"Is there something wrong with England?" The Canadian asked, fearing the answer, but knowing that if Scotland was here, something serious must have happened. The British brothers may have a love-hate relationship, but they cared deeply for one another. And if Canada's memory served him well, Scotland was the first one by England's side, comforting him, when America gained his independency. "Why are you here?" He asked softly, desperately.

America turned to his brother, a worried frown on his face, and then to the Scot, now anxious. "Well?" The american pushed, determination flicked in his eyes, making them darken a hue or two.

No answer was forthcoming and the atmosphere was so tense a knife would have been able to cut it. Scotland lit up a new cigarette before pinning them down with his rage filled eyes. "Brats shouldn't mess into adults-" He begun, but was interrupted mid sentence by the sound of china breaking.

He cursed under his breath before disappearing inside the house, leaving America and Canada not only confused but worried as hell on the doorsteps.

"Canada," Called his unusually serious brother, brows knitted in worry as he adjusted the glasses on his face. "Let's go inside."

He could only stare as his brother didn't think twice nor looked back as he entered the two story brick house. Canada, staring at his brothers back, understood for the first time how someone who others regarded as childish, as infantile, as stupid, could be the world one and only superpower. Right now, in front of him, was not America, the guy who thought robots could solve the worlds problems, the guy who ate hamburgers during world conferences, but the United States of America, the guy who was ready to sacrifice it all for the one's he loved, to fight the world for what he believed in.

Canada soon was following him, his amethyst eyes as hard as his brothers. He knew that whatever was that awaited them wasn't nice, it wasn't a simple hangover, whatever it was had worried the Scot, whatever it was... It would be gut-wrenching. Standing by his brothers side, he gave him a side glance trying to pass him a silent message 'Prepare for the worse', a small nod was his only response, but then again, it was all he needed.

"We are here England/Iggy," They said together as they strode forward.

(oOo)

The office was quite comfy; decorated in dark brown and different hues of green, beige carpet covered the floor from one wall to the other and the sofas were a beautiful maroon in color, with pale green and white pillows on it. In the middle of it were two people discussing in hushed tones that, however, grew in volume as time passed by.

"COME ON!" The tall, slightly tanned, man with thick eyebrows and a adhesive bandage across his nose said, his big brown eyes, with small freckles of green on them, staring imploringly at his friend. "It's important!"

"Oh! And what would be important enough for me to leave my work, without consulting my boss, and go Gods-Know-Where with you, huh, Australia?" Asked his skeptical companion, his equally thick eyebrows knitting together in frustration.

Australia growled irritatedly, if there was someone who could make him kiss his good humor good-bye was the young man in front of him. "It's about mom."

The kiwi the younger man had been carrying on his arms fell to the floor with an indignant squeak. "Mom, you say? Why didn't you said it earlier?! It would have saved us one hour of arguing!" He exclaimed while glaring at the man, taking the kiwi back in his arms at the same time he took his cellphone and made a quick call to his boss, explaining he had 'family problems' and would need two weeks worth of vacation to solve them.

"I forgot." He answered, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning, a slight blush on his cheeks. "Anyway, I already bought your passage and asked the maids to make your luggage, so-"

"I will pay the passage back, no need for me to be in your debt, and who gave you permission to order my maids around?" He asked furiously, sending a glare towards the australian when the other gave him a smirk. "Very well... How do you know mom is in trouble?"

"Canada." He said, shrugging his shoulder as if it was nothing, but anyone could see the worry in his eyes and the tenseness of his posture "He called me yesterday, asking about mom, about people who might be close to mom, of course I gave him a few names, but..."

There was no need for further explanation. "Should I call Gibraltar?" He asked instead looking inquisitively at the Australian "She will be mad if she find out this... Situation through others, more so if she finds out we knew, know, and did not inform her."

"Whatever" Was the Australian's only response, which earned him another weak glare from his companion. "Say, New Zealand, do you think it's serious?"

"Yes, I believe it is quite serious." He answered truthfully "When does our plane leaves?"

"Five hours. Will you call Gibraltar?"

"Yes, I think it's best. Also-" He hesitated, making the Australian stare at him "I believe we will need as much help as we can get..."

"So... We are going to England?"

"We are going to England." Confirmed New Zealand. "And don't you dare make comments about my sports team during the trip, Australia,"

(oOo)

Translation:

~ Scottish Gaelic:

Tha gaol agam ort = I love you

~ Scottish English (?):

Ye = You

# Pairings! I will make a poll to decide who will end up with England. It won't be USUK, sorry. But they will be friends (No father/son relationship.)

# The mystery guy was Australia! And everybody gets cookies because silly author here forgot to put one of the most important phrases on the first unedited chapter.

# Also, and that's the last one I swear, I imagined Australia and New Zealand would be kinda filled with rivalry , you know? And as they didn't really appear too much on the anime/manga, I didn't think I would be making them out of character... But if they are too bad warn me? Pretty please?

_+ I wrote a new fanfiction, I would like to know if you guys would find it interesting to read. It's USUK, definitely, and kinda romance/humor/drama. Very different from this one. So... I will put the summary here and if you could tell me what you think of it... Thank you!_

_Summary_

What happens in Vegas stay in Vegas. That's the rule, that's how it should have been. College student Arthur Kirkland and high schooler Alfred F. Jones, however, find that things are not so simple. Now, due to a drunken mistake, they find their lives irremediably linked. And between jealous ex-lovers, unsupportive parents, old addictions and a whole lot of crazy around them, they will find that 'until death do us part' might not be so far away. USUK.


	5. Author Note

_Heyya_! This isn't a chapter update (sorry), this is an author note, short, but something I think it's necessary. Until last night I wasn't sure of where this fic was heading, so I did a lot of thinking. And I pretty much got it down... Kind of.

Anyway, here are the information you all might be interested in!

+ Pairing: ScotEng.

~ One darling reader showed some concern about the paring thing, well, the romantic aspects of this story, actually. A huge thank you for doing it. I didn't really elaborate about this, yeah? And the way I was talking about it may have given the idea that this fanfic would change because of England's romantic interest. It won't. There will be no smut, I warn you all. Romance won't be a big part of this story; it will be there? Sure, near the end. It will make England miraculously get better? No. This fanfic is about England struggle with his own inner demons and how the people around him help him through this, not romance-centric. Love doesn't make things better all of a sudden. I hope you all understand this and don't hate me.

+ This fanfic will be 10 chapters long, give or take a few.

+ I removed a few characters of this fan-fiction, namely: Bulgaria, Romania and Portugal. They appeared in chapter two because I thought it would be cool, but I simply can't imagine than in anymore scenes. Sorry.

~ The changes aren't so drastic that you need to reread the chapters. So, don't worry about that! Just... Canada made the call to Australia instead of Portugal.

+ Characters 'importance' in this fanfic.

~ Main: England (obviously), Scotland, America and Canada

~ Secondary: Australia, New Zealand

~ Will appear occasionally or be mentions: Royal Family, Gibraltar, maybe others.

+ Any doubts, just PM me.

Once again, thank to all my reviewers, all who faved or follow this fanfic, it truly warms my heart every time a see a warning on my mail box.

****YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME**!**

Thank you,

OfSilveryFeathers

PS: To anyone who is interested, I have/will posted my new fanfic today ;)


	6. Chapter 5

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England (Maybe).

Pairing: ScotEng.

A/N: I'm so freaking sorry! Seriously, England refused to cooperate. And I ended up rewriting the whole chapter and today I almost couldn't finish it because I got sick, but, thankfully, I did it! \o/ If you find any mistakes, please, tell me, I didn't have time to read the text more than twice, and mistakes will always escape our notice sometimes.

I would like to thank a few of my reviewers: Lady Prussia of Awesomeness, InavaderPey, alguien22792, Andre, MMOliveSaints, flavinja, d1g, B, Anastasia, anonymous, guest, beastie, corin, Gal, CrazyHeyaliaFan, Julian and. ALSO, a huge thank to all who faved and followed the fic! Thank you all for your support. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :)

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine! :)

Words count:2800

(italics inside brackets) = memory

Italic = thoughts

PS: This chapter is all England.

_Warning! thoughts about self harm._

x::x::x

FI5

(_He was sited on the floor of his bathroom, again,/A shot of whisk was drowned with one gulp. The glass was filled again, no ice./ His world was blurry. /The glass fell from his hand, breaking in a thousand of pieces_.)

He woke up slowly, the awareness of his surrounding coming back little by little. Soon he was feeling the warm of the covers on top of him, the softness of his pillow; hearing the rustling of the trees and the chirping of birds outside his house; And smelling tobacco. He ignored the last one. Maybe he had smoked one cigarette last night...? Turning a bit on the bed, he stared at the red wallpaper that covered the walls. Frowning, he tried to pull back the dream he had. It had been quite vivid, it seemed so real. Had it been a dream at all?

("_Alb-" Someone called, gently pulling his body, holding him upright._

_The person tried to pry his lips open and, semi-conscious as he was, he whined in protest. It could be poison, it could be anything. "Drink this, you need-"_

_He whimpered and tried to push away the person, whoever it was, it could be trying to kill him. Trust no one; this was his first rule. "Damn it, England!" The person hissed angrily, his words... Worried? Why would an enemy be worried?_

_"You lost too much liquid, you need to drink this unless you want to dehydrate-"_

_He shouldn't trust, he wouldn't. Whining once again, he tried to throw himself away from the man. The person was a man, he was sure. The strong arms that tightened around him and the defined pectoral he was pulled into were dead give aways. "Drink," He pleaded, his voice weary._

_His next words cemented England's decision, there was only one person who called him that name, only one. "Please, Albion" He asked brokenly._

_Relaxing on the, now, familiar arms of his brother, he opened his mouth willingly. A small sigh of satisfaction was the only response he got from the man. Then he felt the taste of ... on his mouth. "You have to drink two more of these, so keep awake,"_)

It was too bright, much too bright, he decided, scrunching his nose. His hands clenched on the fabric covering him, pulling it up, intent on covering his head and going back to sleep. His plans, however, were thwarted by the sound of a heated conversation downstairs. Three people, who were apparently discussing. America, Canada and... Alba?

Canada and America were going to pass by, he could recall the Canadian calling him last - night? Grinding his teeth in frustration, he tried to remember the date, but his mind was uncooperative. Green eyes peered through long lashes at the room he was in, recognizing after a few seconds as his own.

Pushing himself away from the comfy mattress and in a sited position, he tried to remember what the bloody hell happened the night before. He was sure he had been drinking. This would explain the pounding headache, although it wasn't too terrible, he supposed, when compared with others he had had in the past. Running his tongue through his mouth experimentally he cringed, the taste of puke was still there.

(_His body was bent over the toilet, one hand clenched on the rim, supporting him while the other rested firmly on the tank, steadying him as he retched violently. England's throat was raw when he finished it, letting his aching hands go of the toilet and body fall on his heels, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of bile - He should have eaten, he decided. With one trembling hand he cleaned the tickling fluid on his chin. Before he could analyze any further the carmine liquid in his finger, he gagged, bloodstained fingers holding onto the toilet once again as he emptied all his stomachs contains. And considering he hadn't eaten during the day and hadn't drank that much alcohol, there really wasn't much to empty anymore. The yellowed liquid mixed with blood truly made a gruesome combination._)

A wave of nausea hit him, because of the memory or the taste in his mouth he did not know, and for a moment he thought he might have thrown up. He breathed in deeply, trying to sooth his unsettled stomach; one hand he pressed hard against his lips while the other he used to get the covers off himself. As soon as his feet touched the ground and he got up, he felt his world spinning around him and his headache worsened, as if a hammer was constantly hitting on it. He didn't realize nor feel the impact with the ground, his breathing, however, became labored and his wrist, which he had fallen on top, hurt like a bitch.

He thought about screaming for help, he truly did, but just thinking of someone seeing him in such a precarious, such a vulnerable state made his insides clench with fear, with dread. Ridicule, humiliation, he hated it all, hated to feel inferior, weak, he had had all of these enough for many lifetimes. And that's what he was going to feel again should either America or Canada see him. Alba... Alba was the one helping him, right? Had Alba seen him in such a ... state?

(_His eyelids felt heavy, his hands became lax and he fell to the ground with a THUD; the impact actually sending him into another coughing fit that soon resulted in him lying in a puddle of his own vomit. The sound of wood creaking, made him turn his head in it's direction. Or try to, a wheezing fit stopped him._

_He wanted his brother, he wanted to feel warm. Was it too much to ask for? Was he not deserving of feeling safe or wanted? He wished to feel he belonged, was it too much to ask for?!_

_His body was racked by another fit of cough, England feeling the coppery taste of blood on his mouth. "Alb-"_

_His fit finally stopped. How pathetic, he thought, the (ex) British Empire brought to it's knees by a bottle of booze. Pathetic. His eyes burned with unshed tears, but he wouldn't let them fall, not in front of Alba, he had disgraced himself enough in front of the red head for the next decade. Shameful disgrace he was._

_Strong arms lifted him, bringing him close to a well defined chest. Warm._

_Safe._

_He hoped Alba did not realize the salty tears that mixed together with the already disgusting combination of blood and puke on his shirt._)

His body trembled with the strain he put on it as he pushed himself away from the crème carpet, enough for him to remove the (probably) broken left wrist from under himself.

(_Safe/Warm/Belonging/Emerald green eyes looking down at him,/Worried/Preoccupied/Alba_)

With difficulty, he sited on his heels, cradling the damaged arm to his chest.

(_A blond child, blue eyes like the sky of a sunny day. Chubby arms lifted towards him and a hopeful smile, "Up, Engwand!, Up!"_)

He corner of his lips turned upwards in a small smile. Bittersweet. "America"

(_Another child, also blond, but with amethyst eyes. Quiet, calm. "Papa," He would whisper happily at England, holding one hand up, silently begging England to hold it._)

The lips stretched more, a white row of teeth appearing between cracked rosy pink lips. "C-Canada,"

(_An hyperactive running around the big manor, a rambunctious laugh reverberating trough the whole house. His brown hair, neatly combed but for a few strands and a small patch on his nose./A collected little boy, fluffy curled blond hair, a book on his lap as he read it quietly. He only lost his composure when near the brunet child._)

He chuckled, remembering how much confusion the two caused when together, how much chaos. He had fun. "Australia, New Zealand,"

(_A man who looked like him, but for his brown reddish hair/A shy red-haired girl/ A brunet with long flowing hair and the same green-eyes as his_)

A lump formed in his throat and his thin frame to shake. "Wales, North*, Gibraltar."

(_Black hair, black eyes, but with the same bushy eyebrows of his family./Combed black hair and wise hazel eyes. The scent of Tea and incense always hanging around him_)

Sobs made him shake violently while rocking himself back and forth, clutching painfully onto his broken wrist, squeezing it as if the pain on his wrist became strong enough he would forget, even if temporarily, the throbbing of his heart. "Hong K-Kong, India-"

He didn't realize when begun to cry, he just felt the salty flavor on his lips. And cried even harder due to his weakness. Why? Why did everything had to happen to him? Why did his children hate him? Why was he the 'black sheep' of Europe? They treated him as if they had been saints! Germany begun two world wars and he was accepted back in their midst; China still held the Opium Wars against him while Manchuria was all but forgotten; Why had he been the one to be singled out? Why did everyone he loved left him? Was he no good, no good at all? He think that this might be the case, after all, the world couldn't be wrong, right?

He used his shaky right hand to held onto the nightstand and tried to get up. England was still crying when he finally got himself upright, broken wrist hanging on his side, a dead-weight. He kept muttering, "Oh God-" and "Why", voice breaking at the end, wavering.

He stopped weeping for a few seconds, and in a surge of anger caught the porcelain cup on top of the wooden surface and threw it against the opposite wall. When the broken pieces of china fell to the floor, however, he begun weep once again.

Heavy footsteps echoed trough his house but, for once, he did not heard, too absorbed in his own grief, his own despair. He wanted to feel peaceful, or numb at least, he wanted all this bad feelings, all this unbearable feelings gone. Hopelessly, he sought for a knife, anything that would cut his skin and help him. When his eyes finally landed on the ruined china, his heart swelled a bit; apprehension, anxiety. He could still hear two voices downstairs, where was the third? Alb-

Before he could move, or even blink, the door burst open, Alba running worriedly in his direction. His hands felt warm on his shoulder, they burned through the thin cotton of his shirt. And England thought that maybe he wouldn't need the blade, not now, at least. Alba numbed the pain. "Alba...?"

"You idiot! What were you thinking?! What have you done to yourself!" The red-head screamed, shaking England's frame a bit, eyes widened in both fury and worry. "I-I didn't... I don't-"

Dread filled him, had Alba seen something? The knife or the cloth? Maybe both? Had he connected the dots? "I ... Damn it, Albion." He whispered, and England was surprised to hear the deep hurt in his voice, the misery.

(He did not have much time, that much he knew. So, as fast as he could, he grabbed both incriminating items, wrapping the carmine colored blade with the bloodied cloth. He had no idea of where hiding it though. The answer to his question came soon enough, however. The window above the toilet. It had thought about getting rid of it, after all, who had a window, a normal one at least, on top of his or hers toilet? Well, he was glad he did not follow through with his plans. Very glad.

It was with some difficulty that he opened it; knuckles white due to exertion and face red, but he did, he opened it, even if just a few inches. It was enough. He passed the proof of his early activities through the crack and hoped it had fallen behind the bushes, that way he could go and get rid of it properly on a later date. And hopefully nobody else would find it.)

Sighing, a few tears still running down his face, he hugged his brother, who had been rambling - probably scolding him - and gently rested his head on his chest. His heartbeat was strong, steady. It didn't take long for him to cry like a baby once again, fat salty tears leaving his eyes. And the arms that wrapped around him did nothing but make him cry harder, hiccuping once or twice, snot running down his nose even when he sniffed in an attempt to stop it. "Alb-"

"Shhhh. We will get trough this, ok?- Shhhh, no need to cry, wee brother."

He hugged the man harder, pressing his own face on his chest and his running nose to the crook of his neck. "It's alright, Albion, aye?"

He could faintly see two figures on the door. America and Canada, he supposed. He didn't want them to see him like this. Alba was one thing, but not them. Not them. Crying even harder to the point he actually choke and Alba had to rub gently on his back, he hid his face. "OUT! Get out you two! You're upsetting him! **OUT I SAID**!"

"There, they are gone, wee Albion, they are gone." The auburn haired man whispered gently; with so much affection to his words, so much love, some who knew the man would have thought he had lost his mind. "They can't see you now, wee Albion, my wee Albion, I will never let others see you like this. Shhhh."

He understood. He understood. And England loved him for that. He was the only one, the only, who could understand.

"It's alright, I'm here. Shhhh." He soothed.

He didn't know if it was alright, but it was a whole lot better than it had been five minutes ago. It was warm, it was safe. "Alba-"

He didn't know how long they stood there, how long they kept embracing. But he feared it wasn't long enough, it would never be. And when they put some space between them, England felt cold, so so lonely. He grabbed the taller man's shirt's sleeve. "Albion,"

Dread. Fear. Wide green eyes looked up, knowing what was to come.

"We need to talk," He said gruffly, one hand resting gently on the blond's bony shoulder and lightly guiding him out of the room, towards the kitchen and, probably, where the two north-american brothers were.

"I'm sorry, wee Albion, but I'm taking the problem into my own hands,"

At least, he thought with a sinking feeling on the pit of his stomach, he did not know about the self-harm. Although he had no idea what they were going to talk about if not that. So, what problem...?

x::x::x

I don't know if I liked this chapter very much; It was so hard to Write. And I felt I was being to mean to England :(

I'm sorry if there wasn't much progress, but I thought it would be important to show England's side of the things. ANNNND! Now you know why Scotland found no knife or bloodied cloth in the bathroom :D Also, next chapter! The Talk! :)

Explanations:

~ North = Northern Ireland.

Thank you for reading! And I will try my hardest to get the next chapter out in one week time, but I do have college. And exams are drawing near. So don't get your hopes to high, okay? :)


	7. Chapter 6

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens. Oh! Hum... OOC! England (Maybe).

Pairing: ScotEng.

A/N: Sorry, but I warned you guys! Now, next chapter, probably, will also take me two weeks to write. As it is I will probably re-write the middle Of the chapter, but nothing drastic. I just... I wanted to post today! :'( forgive me for any mistakes, but I typed all this and 'it's not gonna be easy' (My other fanfic, USUK) today. I hope you all enjoy this.

I would like to thank a few of my reviewers: Lady Prussia of Awesomeness, InavaderPey, alguien22792, Andre, MMOliveSaints, flavinja, d1g, B, Anastasia, anonymous, guest, beastie, corin, Gal, CrazyHeyaliaFan, Julian and. ALSO, a huge thank to all who faved and followed the fic! Thank you all for your support. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :) As well as to all my new reviewers.

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine! :)

Words count:2500

(italics inside brackets) = memory

Chapter Six:

America's brows were knitted together and arms crossed over his chest, looking as if in deep thought.

Blue eyes glanced around the kitchen, searching for something that could, or would, give him a hint - anything - of what was happening with Iggy, of what they had seen upstairs. All he could see, however, was the usual; nothing out of the ordinary.

The walls were the same white they had been two months ago, when he had last visited; the cabinets were the same wooden ones of always; the pristine white floor, the plates drying on the draining board, the flowers (_"To brighten the room", Iggy said once, finger pads gently caressing the flower... thingy, thistle was it's name, one of the ugliest flowers America ever saw - a longing look on the Brit's face as he stared at the plant._), they were all the same they had been months, if not years, before... All the same. How many decades had it been since Iggy changed something within the house?

The frown deepened as he thought he might be on something. All the same. "Canada-"

When no answer was forthcoming he turned around, annoyed at his brother for ignoring him (Seriously, no one ignored the Hero). "Canada,"

The sight of his brother clutching tightly onto the bear he was always caring around as if his life depended on it and the uncertainty in his eyes made the American wary. The last time he had this look plastered on his face was when he became independent; afraid that Iggy would never talk to him again, that the Brit would despise him. So for the Canadian to be like this...

Like a bucket of cold water, reality came crashing down around him. The tears, the fear, how hysterical he was, hiding in Scotland's embrace... None of that was Iggy, not the Iggy he knew. Not the Iggy who raised him, no no no. His Iggy was strong, never gave up, he did not cry, he was proud and cynical and drank tea as if it was water. Iggy never showed weakness, or what he perceived as weakness (aka, emotions), he didn't lean on others.

What the fuck had happened was his first though; that he did not know how to deal with this shit was the the next one.

For the first time in many years America felt afraid, nervousness slowly sipping into his heart. For an instant, his knees almost bucked; For an instant, he almost run out of the house, fearful of what he would uncover.

Why was Scotland so furious with Iggy? What had he discovered? What was Iggy hiding? Was he in some kind of trouble? DID he, America, want to know?

For an instant, he was a coward and not the Hero he claimed to be. But it was only for one instant. It didn't take long for his resolve to steel itself, for his determination to burn brightly. With courage he hadn't had seconds ago, he sited next to his brother and threw his arm around his shoulders, pulling him into an one arm hug.

He could do it, he decided, he wasn't alone in this. And Iggy would find that he wasn't as well. Soon enough, America was going to get to the end of this. And whoever was the reason behind his friend's fragile emotional state was going to pay.

And they were friends; He and Iggy just had to talk things over- Oh. "Shit,"

x::x::x

It was with baited breath they waited for the British brothers to come down. They could hear the sound of footsteps descending the staircase and the sound of Scotland's gruff voice getting closer.

When England appeared, Canada could have whimpered, in relief and anguish due to both seeing him there and how thin he was, respectively. He felt America stiffening on his seat and saw his fists tightening on top of his tights, but he barely glanced at his brother way, eyes never leaving England's frame as the Scot guided him towards the table. Too thin, too pale, the dark bags under his eyes, how he was slumped - He was categorizing as much as he could of the younger Brit appearance.

"England," He called, smiling slightly to the Brit as he put the cup of tea he had prepared in front of the man. "I hope it's to your liking"

He could feel Scotland's suspicious stare on him and America's curious one, but he did mot care. Green eyes peered into the amber liquid cautiously before looking up at eager amethyst ones. "Thank you, Canada,"

Smiling getting bigger, the Canadian nodded."You're welcom-"

"Okay, we get it, you're a goody-two-shoes laddie." The Scot interrupted, obviously not liking something if the deep frown on his face and the gritted teeth were anything to go by. "Now, onto serious matters-"

The Canadian found Scotland reaction odd, but choose not to comment as put a glass of whiskey in front of the Scot and gave another of coca-cola to America, who was obviously going to say something in his brother defense when he was beaten to it by the most unexpected person on the table: England.

"Alba," the Englishman said quietly, sending a small glare the Scot's way "I would appreciate if you wouldn't be so crass to Canada."

It actually surprised both North-American brothers when the normally ill tempered and quick to anger man acquiesced, muttering curses under his breath and drowning the glass of whiskey with a scowl yes, but acquiesced nonetheless.

From there things calmed down considerably and they begun making small talk before diving in for the important stuff. England, tense during the whole affair, was grateful that the three had not immediately begun with the questions, and relaxed a little in his chair, enjoying his tea. Until Scotland finally breached the awaited topic - and of course he had to do it in a way that would piss England off, otherwise it wouldn't be Scotland.

"How much are you weighing?" Scotland asked, staring straight into England's green eyes.

And, maybe, the Scot asking about such a sensitive topic so carelessly (or, at least, making it look like such) would have made England overreact - had he known what the big deal about his weigh was, that is. So, not seeing where all this was heading to, he answered honestly. Everything had been coming along nicely: the four of them - Scotland, England, America and Canada - were talking amiably around the kitchen table, no fights breaking out. But it soon turned upside down.

Two wide eyed stares and jaws hanging from the North-American brother's as well as the hardening of his own brother's stare weren't what he was expecting. Canada could have sworn he saw the muscle on Scotland's jaw pulling and America's face turned white so fast he thought his brother could have passed out.

Both America and Scotland had gotten up at the revelation, the chairs falling on the floor at their sudden movement. Although the younger nation seemed more shocked while the older one appeared to be furious. "9 stones?!"

Shocked, England stared. He reigned in the urge to say 'So what?' Seeing as his brother looked like he wanted nothing more than to rip someone's head off. "And no one ever noticed?! Don't you have to make health check-ups ?"

"Alba-" He tried to speak up, say it wasn't that bad, he could easily put some weigh on. But the stern glare of the red-head made him think twice before uttering anything. "...Yes,"

Scotland howled in fury. "Is your PM that much of a fool, Albion?!"

Understanding he wanted to vent out his anger, England let him foul-mouth his Prime Minister, not that he was in mood to defend the man. And he doubted he would ever be.

Canada thought best to linger behind the Englishman as he had seen the younger Brit losing his footing once or twice. Best to not risk it, he decided. And, to his dismay, he was soon forgotten by the two more rambunctious (to put it lightly) nations. England, however, sent him a small smile, and the Canadian found himself satisfied with such. "Would you like another cup?" He asked politely to England.

"Yes, please, Canada," England answered, gaze softening as he looked at the Canadian.

America, meanwhile, was making the quick conversation from stones to pounds. And shock gave place to fury as soon as he got to the results. "126 Ib? How-! ENGLAND!"

And then the screaming begun, somehow turning into a brawl midway; with America and Scotland as the main protagonists and Canada as secondary. And England observed it all without intervening, nor commenting.

"THAT FUCKING PM OF YOUR'S! I KNEW HE WOULD SUCK AT HIS JOB BUT NOT SO MUCH!"

"IGGY WHY HAVE YOU BEEN STARVING YOURSELF?!"

"Hum... Guys..."

"YOU WILL SEE A GODDAMN DOCTOR, ALBION!"

"IGGY WHY DIDN'T YOU COME TO MEIF YOU WERE HAVING PROBLEMS-!"

"AND A BLODDY PSYCHOLOGIST TOO!"

"Guys, please-"

"WE HAVE TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF-"

"IGGY I AM SORRY I FAILED YOU AS THE HERO-!"

"Please, stop-"

"THE HERO-!

"CUT THE THE HERO BULLSHIT YOU THRICE DAMNED BRAT-!"

"Please-!"

"OH YEAH!? AND WHO'S GONNA MAKE ME?"

"America!"

"I WILL PUNCH YOUR FACE SO HARD-!"

"Scotland!"

Canada's eyes were wide as he - unsuccessfully - tried to appease both his brother and Scotland. England had hid his face in his hands, why, however, he did not know; though his shoulder were shaking so he might have been crying. Canada, however, had little time to figure it out as Scotland finally snapped and lapped on the American, snarling.

"**ENOUGH!**"

Canada thought it was incredible how England - undernourished, trembling with either anger or tiredness, all around the most fragile person of their small group - could, with one single word, control two of the most problematic nations. Who were at odds for who knew what reason (Although he thought that Scotland was the one who incited the animosity).

It was also fun to see them cower before the power that was England. Of course, his snickers did not pass unnoticed. "If you have time to laugh, Canada-"

Smiling sheepishly, he ducked his head. "Sorry,"

"Alba," England called softly, green eyes turning pleadingly towards his brother. "I will do as you ask me, I will see a doctor-"

Pleased as he was, however, the Scot butted in. "And a psychologist,"

Tiredly, the younger Brit accepted. "And a psychologist. But right now, I want to sleep. Nothing more, nothing less. I have a bloody headache, and your screaming match, didn't help any."

The silence that met his statement was staggering, more so considering the chaos that had been reigning not a few minutes ago.

Putting a cigarette on his mouth and then lightening it, the Scot nodded. "Very well, I will take you,"

It didn't take long for the proud Englishman to protest "Alba, I assure you I don't need to-"

Looking at the two North-American brothers, the Scotsman told them to make themselves comfortable on one of the couches or the floor, their choice, before turning to his brother. "Let me, Albion," He pleaded.

With a sigh and a nod the Englishman was lifted and carried bridal-style to his room.

x::x::x

"I didn't know I was losing so much weigh, I thought... I thought... I don't know" He whispered mirthlessly to the the silent auburn haired man. "I can't say I'm sorry to you, Alba, because how can I be sorry for something I did not realize? I apologize for making you worry, though."

The hallways of his house, England thought, never seemed so long, so... He did not know how to describe them, not really. If he had the energy to muster, he would have chuckled. Once, he had prided himself on being the most eloquent nation - Now, look at him, having difficulties at describing a hallway.

"You did not realize?" He asked, his green eyes peering into the ones of his younger brother. England found it amusing the way he asked, as if the only thing he wanted was England to swear he did not realize, and so he would believe. Just like that.

"I did not," He confirmed, trying to convey his sincerity through his words and eyes, to make his brother believe, because he did not need to lie about it, for it was true. "I found myself feeling a little down, and with no hunger, so I would skip one meal. Normally dinner, for it was at night that the feelings of... It matters not what feelings. But it was at night when they came, I would not feel hunger, I would feel tired and sluggish, and preferred to sleep." Looking at the narrowed eyes of his brother he wondered if he did not believe him, and his heart constricted in his chest. "I would eat a good breakfast the next day, and have lunch... But soon I was skipping dinner every other day,"

"And then I wasn't hungry anymore at night. The same process happened to lunch... And then ... Then you happened brother. And know I find myself in this predicament that I never imagined I would be."

The smell of tobacco made England remember his rebel days, his punk days. He had liked them, he never felt so... Alive. Smiling slightly, he breathed in deeply, the smoke entering his lungs calming him somewhat.

"Don't you believe me, brother?" He finally asked the silent man who carried him.

"No," England asked himself how only one word could make his heart twist and burn. "It's actually the opposite, I do."

"Why?" He asked, curious, as his brother finally tucked him in the bed before joining the Englishman.

"Why? Why shouldn't I?" The auburn haired man asked, green eyes shining with mirth, as if he had told England some secret. "Albion, my wee Albion, I will always believe you first and foremost - Always."

Yes, it seemed that with Alba it was just like that.

As the big and calloused hands of his brother carded through his hair, occasionally massaging his scalp, England couldn't help but feel... He did not know, and his mind, groggy from sleep, did not help. It just bothered him. He could not tell Alba, as much as he wanted to - he could not. Simply because he feared his brother would not understand.

But hadn't he always understood?

He would tell, he decided. Yes, he would be screamed at, he would be called stupid. But, in the end, Alba would understand. And he would hug him, and tell him everything was going to be okay - And they would, because Alba never lied. Never to him, at least.

"Alba? Brother?"

His eyes burned with unshed tears and hands trembled in anticipation.

No answer. "Alba?"

The soft snoring coming from his right informed him that Alba had already fallen into deep slumber. Huffing, quietly as to not wake his brother, he turned a bit, making it possible to stare at the face of the red-head. "Alba... I wish..."

What? What did he wish?

... He did not know.

A few tears slid down his cheeks as he watched his brother sleep, the cigarette - still lit - hanging of his mouth, was removed and the put off.

Smiling slightly, England cuddled closer to his brother. "Good-Night, Alba,"

x::x::x

~ Please, do forgive the crappy middle? As stated, I will, probably, edit it.

~ Also, please, notify me of any mistakes? Thank you.

+ I will edit the last chapter when I have time, which I don't right now, but I will, I swear! \o/


	8. Chapter 7

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others. I, however, will always mention, on the begging of the chapters, if something of the kind happens.

Pairing: ScotEng.

**READ THE A/N!**

A/N: Hello! Terrible sorry for the late update (though I worked hard yesterday and today to update it, well, today and not next week.). Good news! We are halfway through with the story. Bad? I am now in a script contest, writing a original novel (Finished prologue and begun chapter one, heck yeah!) and trying to creat a blog (if in English or portuguese remains to be seen, but probably the latter.)... Yeah. There is also college (That I gotta study more for, seriously, my grades weren't bad, but not that high either.)... So I'm putting my other fanfic (formerly known as It's not gonna be easy) in Hiatus. Not Fallents Insula. I repeat: NOT FALLENTES INSULA. I'm gonna finish this baby. But, updates might waver between two weeks and a month, sorry.

Now, onto less serious business, but no less important:

I would like to thank a few of my reviewers: Lady Prussia of Awesomeness, InavaderPey, alguien22792, Andre, MMOliveSaints, flavinja, d1g, B, Anastasia, anonymous, guest, beastie, corin, Gal, CrazyHeyaliaFan, Julian and. ALSO, a huge thank to all who faved and followed the fic! Thank you all for your support. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. :) As well as to all my new reviewers.

Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, but to Hidekaz Himaruya! The marvellous characters are all his! The plot, however, is mine! :)

Words count: 3800

**Warning: thoughts about suicide, depression.**

xxx

Walking through the long hallways of England's small mansion was quite a chore if one was not used to the house. Canada, however, wasn't one of those and had, more times than he liked to admit, gotten into trouble when he was young for snooping around the Brit's house when he was allowed to come. It might not look like it, but if there was one thing he shared with his twin brother, it was his curiosity.

Breathing in deeply and steeling his resolve, he knocked lightly on the oak door, a bit worried that he might wake England - or Scotland - up. But unsure of what he should do, as it were already eleven in the morning, he thought it best see England, who was quite famous for his early rising habit.

When a quiet, heavily accented, 'Enter' answered, he turned the knob and pushed the door open, putting his face on the small slot between the door and the threshold he had made.

"Good morning," He whispered as his amethyst eyes looked for a familiar mop of blond hair. The Englishman, however, was not on his bed, in which the Scot laid sprawled and probably quite comfy. "England?"

The sound of tinkering china alerted him to a second (or would that be third?) presence in the chamber. "Here,"

He fully entered the room and the door was closed with a soft click behind him as he walked towards the tired-looking Englishman. As he made his way towards England, he took in his surroundings; the red walls, the expensive and old furniture, the smell of tobacco (Although that was probably Scotland's fault) and roses as well as the golden ornaments of the room. It hand't changed much from the last time he had seen the man's private chambers - if at all. And that had been 1986. "England,"

A small smile tugged at the corner of the Brit's lips. "Canada,"

He did not know if it was because he himself had been tired yesterday or simply because of the revelations he was privy to the night before, however, England never looked so tired in the Canadian's eyes. His entire frame screamed fragile; he was sickly pale and his eyes were not the same lime green they used to be, the blond hair didn't have it's shine and seemed greasy and there were dark purple bags under his eyes. Darn! Why didn't he see it sooner! Wh-

"-ada. Canada!"

"Sorry," The Canadian said sheepishly, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"It's alright, lad," England said, putting his half-full cup of tea down and then nodding towards the empty seat by his side. "Sit,"

Thanking, the Canadian did as he was told, quickly making himself comfortable in the armchair. "Now, what do you wish to talk with me?"

"Hm," He stalled, looking at the unlit fire and intertwining his fingers tightly. "I- I woke up a few... A few hours ago, a couple, I think. And I had nothing to do. No! I mean, I wanted to-"

How could he say he wanted to talk about last night? He should have thought this plan through.

"Canada," The Brit interrupted him mid-sentence and amethyst eyes abandoned the not-as-interesting-as-he-would-like-it-to-be fireplace to focus on the, now, standing Brit. "Would like to go shopping with me?"

Now this caught him off guard.

He felt his jaw slacking off of it's hinges. And by the amused look in England's eyes he probably was gapping quite unseemly. "I- Ah- I mean! I would love to!"

The Brit nodded once before giving the Canadian a long look. "Go change."

He trampled the desire to ask why. He was spending far too much time with America if he had already forgotten the rules England had instilled into him. "And come back once you are ready to go, Canada."

With a quick nod of his own, he left the room. The last thing he saw before the door closed once more behind him was England's thin frame going to his wardrobe.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he had just being out-maneuvered. He had, after all, come to talk about last night... Events.

Sighing, Canada conceded that he was no mastermind and, therefore, had no hopes of getting England to open up by sneaking around or trying to be subtle.

The shopping trip, though, might be what he needed to get the Brit to talk to him. To open up. He reigned in the desire to snort.

England would only open up willingly when Hell froze over.

xxx

He opened his bag without much fuss and started looking for something 'presentable' that would pass England's clothes standards. Not an easy task, but he managed it. Though he did stole a dress-shirt from America's luggage to finish his looks. And, now, combing his hair, he felt anxiousness slowly sipping into his heart and fear crawling down his spine.

"Stop" He said quite seriously to his own reflexion. "No backing down on this, eh?"

A groan made him turn around quickly, just in time to see his brother propping himself up on his elbows. "Canada?... Why are you- Is that my shirt?"

America, with his hair going every which way and blue eyes still dazed from sleep, grimaced when he moved. Obviously, sleeping on the floor had it's consequences. Even for the Hero. But, Canada knew, the American would be too stubborn to say otherwise. Just remembering their argument last night made Canada's head throb painfully. 'Hero's don't let their younger brothers sleep on the floor!' America had said and nothing Canada used, logical or not, seemed to make his brother give in. Well, it was America.

"Hm. Yes. I needed it. England accepts no less than a dress-shirt when going out. And I didn't bring any. Well, I did. But you dirtied it with chocolate ice-cream yesterday, remember? And the others are smelly because I used them to go to the conference and it's, surprisingly, hot. So I borrowed one of yours, okay?" He was surprised he didn't trip on his own words with how fast he was speaking.

The wide blue eyes of his brother were comical and the way he blinked owlishly as he tried to process all the information would have made Canada laugh for hours had he not been in a hurry. "Wha-? Bro, calm down. You can use my shirt, just give it back later on."

Although it was good to know he could use the shirt, he waited for America's next words. "W- WAIT! You're going out with England?! As in... A date?"

Blushing furiously, Canada stuttered a bit before answering. "What! No! We are going to go shopping."

The silence didn't last for more than a few seconds. "I'm coming with you guys."

"No."

"Why not?! If it isn't a date then I can come, yeah? What's up with you dude?"

"America... I want to talk with England about last night. I don't... I don't think he would have caved in so easily to Scotland's demands. It would mean giving up personal information, secrets, and England isn't one to give those up so effortlessly." He explained, praying that his brother would understand. "I don't want him to feel cornered or that we are, somehow, pressuring him."

"I wouldn't-"

"You all but screamed at him to answer your questions yesterday, America, don't pretend it's not true." The Canadian hissed at his twin, unable to hide his anger at the idiotic course of action the American had taken. It would do nothing but alienate the Brit further.

Blue eyes looked hopelessly at him and Canada felt his irritation diminishing. "Canada, I don't... I don't know how to deal with this..."

"None of us d-"

"No! Listen! I... I think it may be my fault that he is like that."

"What! What do you mean?! What are you talking about?!" He asked in a controlled voice, don't wanting England to hear them. "What did you do?"

The American angrily pushed his hands inside his jeans pockets and hunched, face closed off. And Canada really thought he wouldn't answer anymore. But America surprised him when he slipped into the couch and straightened himself. "The last day of conference. He- England, asked to have lunch with me. I- I thought that he was... Trying to prank me or some shit, something like that, y'know?"

No, Canada did not know. And America shouldn't have thought that at all. If there was something England despised with a passion, it was pranks. They made him remember of an ex-colony of his, one that wormed the way to his cold heart like few did. Hong-Kong. America should have know. Everyone had seen how he had been after 1997. And China prohibiting him from contacting Hong-Kong hadn't helped. At all.

"Anyway," The American continued when his brother didn't say anything. "I turned him down before going to have lunch with Japan, we had already made plans together to go to the store and buy a few horror movies..."

"America you are an idiot." He said matter of fact to his brother. He saw no need to coddle him, England had done enough of that for lifetimes. "But it seems that this, whatever it is, has been going on for a pretty long time, and not a few days."

Wide, hopeful, blue eyes looked up at him. "It doesn't mean what you did wasn't hurtful, however. Talk to him later on, you two should have had this talk long ago."

The American sunk further in the couch, eyes closed tightly. "Yeah,"

"America?" He asked worriedly, afraid that he may have been too hard on his idiotic brother. It wasn't that the American was mean, just... Thoughtless. And tactless. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yeah," The American answered as he hid his face in the crook of his elbow. "Go before England gets mad at you for making him wait,"

"America, for all it's worth, I am sorry. And I hope you straighten things up with him." He whispered, patting lightly his brother knee before leaving.

As he climbed the stairs he heard a muffled, and slightly choked, 'Yeah' behind him. It made him wonder if America was crying. It was possible. He was always sensitive to matters regarding England even though their relationship was complicated, rocky, to put it lightly. Carding his hand through his hair, and consequently messing it up, the Canadian couldn't help but wish everything could be fixed with magic. Like in the fairy-tails England would read to him when he was younger.

Shame that in real life there was no such thing as magical solutions.

xxx

"There," The Brit pointed to a shop that, hadn't he done so, Canada would have passed by without looking twice. "Let's go, Matthew,"

Nodding slightly, Canada scurried after the older blond. He was surprised how England's mood had improved as soon as he was in the middle of his people. He supposed that what they said about England was true; his people and his Royals meant the most to him, so much that his whole demeanor changed for the better just by staying in their midst. "Ah- Wait!"

The crowded streets made it just a bit harder for the Canadian to keep up with the Brit's rhythm, the latter seeming to be able to avoid any citizen without batting his lashes. It was, he supposed, an ingrained habit. He lived here, he was used to it on a daily basis. "Arthur!"

Of course it frustrated him. Just a little bit. "Arthur!"

Even more so because the Brit wasn't answering him. "ARTHUR!"

He couldn't find him, he couldn't find England. The mop of blond hair he had been following around was no where to see. His clothes, he knew, would be useless to look for; everyone in London seemed to use either grey or brown or black. He wished that England still wore his punk clothes or had his hair dyed green - it would have been easier to find him.

Canada was panicking. Maybe hyperventilating because people were giving him a wide berth. And some had started to question if he was alright. No, no he wasn't, he wanted to say. I lost my undernourished and extremely unhealthy father. I am not fucking alright, he wanted to shout at them as unpolitely as he could. But he did not, he just nodded with a weak smile and gave some lame excuse about being tired and walked away.

He wasn't sure how he managed to get to one of the well-know red telephone box without falling face first on the ground, much less how he was able to recall and dial to England's house, hoping against hope that someone would pick the damn phone up.

The realization that England had run-away on purpose only came to mind after he talked to the Scot (and was properly scolded and cursed for acting like a 'brainless imbecile who couldn't see a deceit when it slapped him on the face and called him Madeline').

He had to quell to urge to throw up and cry at the same time when the call was over and done with, he had said America was an idiot, but, apparently, stupidity run in the family.

"Damn it," He muttered, leaning his body against the side of the telephone box and sliding down to the ground as a lump formed in his throat. "Damn it,"

Eyes burning with unshed tears, he let go, not caring if someone would see him crying.

"Please, Arthur, we just want to help" He whispered in between the sobs that raked his body. "We just want to help, Papa,"

xxx

Putting the phone down, Scotland sighed. A cigarette, unlit, on his lips as the red-head carded his calloused fingers through his hairs, sometimes tugging it painfully, an habit he picked centuries ago and had yet to lose. "Albion,"

He should have know. It had been careless of him to think Albion would accept whatever he demanded of him with such a meek attitude. Sick or not, there should have been screams loud enough to make the house shake, broken furniture, a punch or two thrown his way and cursing, lots and lots of cursing. Maybe magic too, if his wee brother had been pissed enough - and he should have been pissed enough to use magic. "Fucking hell,"

He should have know he would be plotting something, that the wheels in his head had started to turn as soon as he hid his face with his hands, maybe even before that. Albion was smart, Scotland had to give him that.

"BRAT!" Scotland howled, his gruff voice echoing through all the house.

He couldn't do this alone. And as much as he despised the North-American brothers, he needed help - as much as he could get. Even though they were getting in the way more than helping right now.

When he heard a muffled 'What?!' he screamed for the damn boy to scramble upstairs, but offered no further answers to the following 'Why?!' and 'Who the hell do you think you are you fucking son of a bitch?!'

If they were to help England, well, it was either brute force or the Queen.

Blinking slowly, Scotland thought for a few seconds before smiling. If wee Albion could play it dirty, so could they. Reaching for the phone once more, Scotland dialed the well know numbers. "Hello, Your Majesty. Here is Alistair Kirkland-"

xxx

As soon as he couldn't see Canada anymore, he had ducked to left, entering a small alley that would take him straight to a run-down building with grey and sprayed walls. He had little time, he knew. Canada might have been easily tricked, but, more than likely, he would call Alba. And the short-tempered auburn-haired male knew him well enough to find him. And had no qualms what-so-ever about playing dirty.

He wouldn't be surprised if his Alba called Her Majesty. Reason why he left Her a note telling where he would be. Well, he gave the name of three different places. What would life be without a lit bit of fun, he thought with a smirk on his lips.

He entered the decaying building with ease, his feet barely making any sound as they made contact with the wooden floor. England, looking around ,regretted not taking better care of this place; it had been, after all, one of his many houses. This one, particularly, was used the most during his punk days.

All his houses, with the exception of the small manor on the out skirts of London, though, were just like this; dirty, forgotten, broken. He grimaced when remembering the place he used to live during the height of his Empire. It had been huge, bigger then Her Majesty's palace, Buckingham. When his Empire started to crumble, however, it became too much for a few nations - too big -, it also became painful for him to remember how lively it had been, the children he had lost. His children.

_They had been so small. So fragile. So dependent. Always looking up to him, asking him for guidance - to guide them. His colonies, his children. His his his_.

He didn't blink as a few rats passed right by his side, their squeaking noise barely registering in his brain. He wondered, just sometimes, what would have happened should he had fought for his colonies. Like France. Then again, he would reason, he still had the Commonwealth, France didn't. His children were, somewhat, at arms length.

"But they hate me,"

Breathing in deeply, England entered a room. The master room, if his memory did not fail him - And it did not. The dark blue wallpapers were tattered as much as the once creamy carpet, now grey, that covered every inch of the floor. The furniture covered with white cloths as ruined as the rest of the house, he had no doubt. The sun barely illuminated anything because of the drawn curtains, which England quickly rectify by opening them.

He didn't dare glance around at the, now, embedded in sunlight room. He didn't wish too see how bad it was. It would break him further, he was sure. And he did not come to worsen himself, he came to confirm something.

He took his dress-shoes off before quickly unbuttoning his dress-shirt and then pants, letting both fall to the ground As he stood with only his plain black briefs.

He quietly walked towards one of the hidden furniture, taking off the cloth that protected it. A thin veil of dust covered what should have been a reflective surface, but it did not deter him. He cleaned it. And bit by bit, his own reflexion was revealed.

And, as much as he did want to pretend that it had not scared him, that it had not horrified him - It did. It did so much that he quickly covered it with the white cloth once again. He puked on the ground, not caring the stench that would remain, but also finding it impossible to hold his stomach's contents. He had told Alba the truth, he had not realized what he had been doing with himself.

Until now, he hadn't believed it had been that grave, that bad. He decided to come here, to his old house, to discover the truth, to see the truth with his own eyes. And, now, he wish he hadn't. "Alba," He called, wanting his older sibling, his warm, heat - his protection.

He sat on the ground and curled into himself, the puddle of bile by his side stank, but he did not care. His garments remained creased on the floor, near, but he was unable to even reach for them in his mental state. "Alba,"

He wanted his brother, his Alba. Or even Canada. Or America. Damn, he would accept the fucking 'Bad Trio' right now. But Alba would be the better one, because Alba would understand. Eventually. his older brother would always be the best pick. "Alba,"

He did not know when he begun to cry or shake or sob. The only thing he aware of was that he was cold, alone and scared. For the first time in years, decades, he was scared. And wanted nothing more than the warm comfort of his brother's arms. And a cuppa, probably. "Alba,"

He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to forget the image that now seemed burned into his mind. It was sickening. And just remembering it made bile burn his throat. He was pathetic. So bloody pathetic.

How could anyone love him? He was a shitty excuse of a nation. What kind of self-respecting nation let their bodies deteriorate to such point? What kind of goddamn nation cut themselves? He was pathetic. Pathetic. He truly deserved to be extinguished. Maybe he should have been. Rome, France, the Nordics, Germany, Netherlands, Spain, Prussia - They all tried to kill him, to defeat him. And maybe, maybe, they were right. No, no, they certainly were right.

He shouldn't exist.

He shouldn't exist.

And if he could, if he could, he would kill himself. But he couldn't. So he was, instead, condemned to a life of misery. "Pathetic."

xxx

Btw, question to my darling American's readers, are you guys in summer vacations? If not, when is it?


	9. Chapter 8

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Future slash (malexmale relationship), depression, self harm, eating disorder and maybe a few others.

Pairing: ScotEng.

**A/N:** Hey guys! So, this is _half _a chapter. "Why not the whole chapter, author-san?!" Simple! This half is AMERICA. And I couldn't put other characters without thinking it turned out weird. Also, I wrote it all today~! And do not have the second half yet, although I think I will have it either later on today or, max, tomorrow. YAY! :DD

Before I forget: SORRY TO EVERYONE THAT READES CONFRAGOSA ITER (IT'S NOT GONNA BE ESAY), BUT I AM GOING TO DELETE IT. SORRY, BUT I CAN'T SEEM TO WORK ON IT ANYMORE.

_Enjoy the chapter~!_

**Warnings: None.**

Word Count: 2000

(oOo)

He fidgeted slightly on the cushy armchair he sat, trying to put as much distance between himself and the obviously ticked-off red-head on his left. America knew better than to try and get near Scotland when he was like this, Canada had told him enough stories about how explosive the man's temper could be. And he wasn't eager to see how much truth his brother's words held.

Prim and proper, however, the woman in front of them, with light-blue suit on, perfectly combed gray hair and glasses resting on the tip of her nose, took the brunt of the Scot's glare in stride. America was, without doubt, impressed. He, however, couldn't help but think of what – or more exactly _who_ – was the reason they were here. And consequently also was the reason behind Scotland's foul mood and the woman's tinning lips (America wondered if that meant _she_ was also getting pissed).

"Alistair-" She begun, shoulders squared and rigid posture, an icy blue glare directed towards the Scot "I assure you nothing more happened. That is all that transpired this afternoon. I do **not** have reasons to lie."

"And I do not recall ever giving your permission to barge into my office and talk not only nonsense, but also accuse me of doing such a thing."

With the corner of his eyes, America saw the red-head wince, but Scotland did not back down. His green eyes narrowed further and pinned down on the old lady. And how he could act like that with his _Queen_ was something America couldn't understand. Admittedly, it took some time for the American to grasp the concept that the United Kingdom was not one (Iggy), but four. And Iggy's Queen wasn't just _his_, but _his brother's_ as well. Confusing, but he _understood_. And knowing how Iggy gushed about her and his eyes would come alight when in her vicinity - he assumed it was the same for his brothers.

Apparently not.

"Well, _Your Majesty_," Scotland all but spat the honorific out, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "I ask that you forgive me if I can't believe _Arthur_ would just drop for _tea_-"

"**Enough**!" She exclaimed, and America was sure that if looks could kill Scotland would have been six-feet under - Or maybe twelve. "_Alistair_, you will show the minimum of respect and decorum. This is not your house. And if I tell you that Arthur only dropped by to have tea with me and Kate than _you better believe it_."

Yeah, America could see that the Queen and England's brother didn't have the best of the relationships. He wondered if that was one of the reasons England was the one chosen to represent the United Kingdom. Looking at the old Monarch, America felt a pang of anger. Why couldn't she understand that they were worried? Why-

With anxious and slightly wide eyes he saw Scotland get up abruptly, the chair he had sat upon making a squeaking noise as the older nation got up and screeching as he pushed it behind. With one last disgruntled look in the Queen's direction, the red-head left. Before he closed the door behind him though, just as America was getting up to follow, Scotland sent him a significant look. America assumed it was something along '_Talk to her! Get some bloody information!'_. So he let his body fall heavily once again on the quite comfy chair.

Sky blue eyes met ice blue ones.

Sighing, the Queen removed her glasses and stared at him with tired eyes. "Why are you still here?"

Twisting his lips, the American tried to smile, to appear like he wanted nothing at all. When her eyes narrowed and he knew his attempts had been not only futile but not appreciated, he shrugged. "Iggy disappeared."

"And I already informed Alistair – And you as well by default _Alfred_ – That I have no idea where he could be," She answered sourly, clearly fed up with the discussion.

"And there is a reason I wouldn't know. Also, for the same reason I wouldn't tell you. Would you like to know what it is, _Alfred_?" She asked quietly, her eyes distant – lost in memories. America was painfully reminded of Arthur; he always had this look on his face.

He quickly nodded, then averted his gaze when pain marred every line of her face and it became too much for the blond to look at. There was too much pain, even for him. Embarrassment and guilt flooded his being, it was a personal question. _Obviously_. But he had to know: it could be important. It could be one of the reasons behind Iggy's state of mind.

It was silent before she finally spoke up; her voice was soft and very low, barely above a whisper. "I betrayed him once, not long ago."

If America was shocked, he did not shown, but he felt the blood draining from his face. She smiled sadly towards him before continuing. "I failed him, Alfred, I was weak."

"Because of this he still doesn't trust me completely. And because of this I feel that, even if he told me _where_ he hid, I wouldn't tell his location." She said, letting her body relax on her seat.

"He is a strong nation, Alfred," She stated, her eyes boring into him, willing the American to agree with her. "He may need help, yes, but… If he ran, he had a motivation. He must have something he has to do before he can trust the two of you."

America truly wanted to believe her. That Iggy was strong he knew. In his eyes there were few who were strong like his friend. Friend? Blinking slowly, he tested the word with his tongue. He liked it, he did. And, smiling softly, he looked at the monarch.

"Er- Your Majesty… I know Iggy is strong_. I know_. But even he needs help. And I am going to be his clutches if he needs help to walk. His punching bag if he needs to release pent up frustration. I will be his friend. I will led my shoulder for him to cry, my ears for his complains, my tongue for him to test his awful cooking," America claimed, chuckling at the last one, his gaze never wavering, never leaving the steadily wider blue eyes of the Queen. "_I will be his best-friend_."

"But first I gotta find him. I gotta find him and apologize, and say how stupid I was. And mend centuries of unresolved issues. And say so _much_ more. But first… I gotta find him, Ma'am. So, please," And here he truly considered throwing himself at her feet. "Please tell me where he is or, at least, where you think he might be. You know him better than most. _Please_."

Her eyes flicked over to the door and then to him. America though she would say no, he really did. But then she said something that made him grin, the widest grin so far in the last few days.

"There is a couple of places he mentioned while he was here, and two more I know he is fond of. He _might_ have dropped the names to simply play with you two – well, three – but I will pass the names to you." She conceded, shoulders falling a bit before she recomposed herself.

"And, Alistair, you might want to stop eavesdropping and get in."

Snickering, the American looked behind himself in time to see Scotland open the door and stroll in as if nothing had happened. A lit cigarette between his teeth and a small smirk on his lips - the man was pleased with the outcome, America could tell. But he still sent an annoyed glare towards the Queen when she looked at him straight in the eyes and said: "One would expect a nation with a long line of Kings and Queens to have acquired some manners over the time."

America really started to wonder if part of England's personality had rubbed off on his Queen.

The quirked lips as she looked at the frustrated Scot certainly suggested so.

(oOo)

They had separated; Scotland with two names, two more had been sent by message to Canada and only one had been left to America, under the excuse the American didn't know England that well. And even though it was a valid excuse, America still found it unfair. He was the _Hero_.

Nibbling at his bottom lip, the American looked at the scrap of paper he had wrote the address on and then glanced around one more time. It was weird neighborhood, he had to admit. Not that he hadn't he fair sure of weird back home, but he had never seen so many punks and rockers and Goths together, and he was pretty sure some dudes were giving him the evil eye.

Why, though, he didn't know. Hadn't the 'faintest', as they said here.

As he watched, with the corner of his eyes, a group of five men slowly coming his way, and looking none too happy or friendly, he quickly ducked to the left. A startled cry alerted him to the fact that, yeah, they were coming after him. But he neither was in the mood to find out nor did he have time to deal with them.

Huffing, America pulled his jacket tighter around himself and to run as fast as he could, giving strong impulses when his feet connected to the asphalted street. "Damn it."

Screaming and threats, as well as some quite colorful curse-words, followed his wake.

As he got farther and farther away from the crowded areas, the buildings became more and more run-down, to the point the American suspected that only desperate people would dare live here; it was an abandoned area. He slowed down to a simple jog as he took in his surroundings once again.

Maybe, he thought, a few decades ago this had been thriving. Especially during the punkish era that shook the country. And he couldn't help but choke when he remembered a green-haired England. That had been fun.

Shaking his head to come back to the problem at hand, the American looked at the number of one of the old structures. And his mouth opened in a 'o'. 1209. He put his hands in his pockets and begun a mad search for the scrap – He was sure the address was not only a four digit number, but that 12 were the first two numbers. So it wasn't hard to put two and two and realize the building was near.

Grinning at the crumbled piece of paper and almost unrecognizable chicken scrawl that was his words, the American whistled happily as he made his way towards number 1226. Blue eyes twinkled happily at his accomplishment, and he could only hope that England was here. It would be easier.

And he could be the Hero and save him.

And, maybe, they could talk.

Suddenly, America didn't feel so happy, not even excited. But anxious and fearful.

Was England in here? Would he be ok?

Would he want to talk? Would he lash out?

As America pushed the door open and looked at the old staircase. Whimpering, the American didn't know if he blessed his luck or cursed it. On one hand England could be here, on the other… This place looked like a horror house!

"Well-," He whispered, fingers curling around the gun he kept on him at all times. "It's now or never."

(oOo)

OHH! I'm addicted to KHR (Katekyo Hitman Reborn)! It's so much fun~ And there are some AWESOME fanfics out there! Reason why my writing suffered recently (College is also to blame). Oh well. Do any of you awesome readers like it?

~ Can you guys suggest some Arthur/England centered fanfics for me? Please~? I'm out of reading material...


	10. Chapter 9

Summary: Outside, rain kept falling over the city of London. The sky was grey, dark. But it was always like that. The Londoners didn't realize the air became a bit colder, and that the wind grew a bit stronger. They didn't realize their country was suffering, but then again: no one did. And would someone before it was too late?

Rate: M

Warning: Implied malexmale relationship (Later on), depression, self harm, eating disorder, and NOT ROMANCE-CENTERED.

Pairing: ScotEng.

**A/N:** Here is the new chapter. Here comes England, so prepare the handkerchiefs! I would like to thank the last _chapters reviewers_:

_DarkLadyBella_: I'm happy that you love this fic~ Thank you! :)

_Kittywitchy_: Aw~! Thanks, I will! :D

_CrazyHetaliaFan_: HAHAHAH! Who knows? Will the Hero save the day? XD The answer is in this chapter~

_Flavinja_: I agree! America is cute, ain't he? ;) AH! I'm glad you liked the Queen! And, yeah, her relationship with England is loads better~ But then again, England always had (and will have) loads of fondness for his monarchs, and they for him. I'm sorry, really, I am. But NGBE wasn't going forward. :/ Sorry. I hope you can forgive me…

_Sora Resi_: Heck Yeah, the Queen is sassy! Learned Learnt with the best: England. XD

**Warnings: Depression, mentions of eating disorder and self-harm.**

Chapter 9

He lifted his head and stared straight in the mirror in front of him, puffy red eyes fixed on his own reflection. The crumpled form he saw should have angered him – it would have angered not even two days ago. But he was tired – exhausted, even. With care, much more than he had at the first time, he examined every inch he could see of his body.

Slowly, he disentangled himself from the cocoon he had formed, arms and legs stretching, white knuckles letting go of his knees and toes uncurling as he felt, more than ever, the need to _see_. His lips twisted and opened, but no sound came out, only a heavy and labored breathe he didn't know he had been holding. For how long had he being holding his breath? He didn't know. And, somehow, that truly scared him.

But he shoved such fears to the back of his mind in favor of his curiosity. Morbid as it was.

He crawled, because for the first time in decades he couldn't muster strength, none at all, to arise, much less walk. He felt empty – no, not empty. He felt empty – was empty – two days ago, two years ago, two bloody decades ago. Now, for the first time in such a long and torturous time, he felt again.

With difficulty, he managed to stand on his knees.

And as his eyes shone with unshed tears, something between a choke and a laugh escaped his lips. His thin – now bordering on bony – fingers touched the clear surface of the mirror, caressed the reflection of his own sickly pale face. He drunk on the sight of his weak form; the arms, thighs, collarbone and slightly pronounced rib cage – How could he not notice this?

_How?_

His eyes were wide as he saw the extent of his actions, and tears, small and pear-like, begun to fall, slowly prickling down his cheeks. This… He didn't want _this_. Never did.

A quick end, like he wished, was something; this was another whole lot of... _Something_, something he never wished for.

He quickly fisted his hand when it started to tremble, his watered eyes never leaving his reflection. He would burn it to his memory. He wouldn't allow himself to forget.

England vowed to himself one promise he intended to keep; _he would never allow himself to fall so far ever again._ And this memory would be his wake up call and his reminder.

He would go to the psychologist. He _would_. But he wouldn't talk about the cutting.

Firstly, there was no proof of what he had done.

Secondly, it was something he wasn't willingly to bring up with Alistair. Not after his reaction to- He just wasn't comfortable. And it wasn't that much of a big deal anyway.

_He would just stop._

England blatantly ignored the little voice in his head that whispered that he couldn't do it. _That he was too weak to do it_.

Watered eyes finally left his image to look at the crumpled clothes on the floor. He should dress himself, he supposed. One of those three could arrive at any moment and the last thing he wanted was for... To be seen in such a deplorable state. He needn't any further humiliation.

Conscious of his trembling limbs he daren't move, he would fall if he tried – he was sure. On the other hand, if he didn't move he would never be able to dress. Nibbling at his bottom lip, he squeezed his eyes shut. Public humiliation or a bruised ego, which was worst?

It wasn't that hard of a choice.

And as his arms and legs moved accordingly to his commands, England thought that maybe he wasn't that bad. If he still could move (even if on all four's)... It mustn't be as bad as he thought.

It didn't take long for him to fall face fist on the ground, his face burning from both shame and the actual hit. "Can't even _crawl_ – How _pathetic_,"

England stayed down for a few good minutes, not eager to repeat the experience any time soon. And his limbs seemed to have burned any and all energy they had with this last 'attempt'.

"_Bloody hell_,"

With the corner of his eyes, he saw his garments just a few inches out of reach, as if mocking him. His hands twitched as he pushed himself upwards, and ignoring the stinging pain in his face, he lifted his head. His green eyes narrowed on the clothes, and he forced his body to _move_.

But it just _wouldn't_.

And England felt tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. Damn it, he wanted to scream. _Damn it. Goddamn it. _**Goddamn it all!**

The sound of footsteps getting closer alerted to him of another person's presence. And he remembered the state he was in. And the smell of _puke_. He could ignore, it actually barely registered in his brain, but what would it look like if one of these three – two who might think he must have some kind of eating disorder, and one who knows the truth – found him with a puddle of thrice-damned vomit by his side? Th-

"Iggy?"

He cursed his luck at the same time he turned his head just enough for him to see the American at the threshold, his blue eyes widened and a flurry of emotions passing through them so fast England couldn't pin-point one emotion in particular. "America?"

Suddenly, England felt the urge to retch once again, and he did. The sour taste – disgusting, to put it nicely – made him grimace. Great, with how many times he had been puking on the last few days the taste would linger on his mouth for the next couple of years.

"Iggy!"

This was turning out way worse than he had expected. He supposed that's what happened when you didn't think your plan through. "Bloody hell,"

(oOo)

Scotland kicked the armchair in his rage, a snarl leaving his lips as he glared at the cracking fire in the fireplace, which he had lit as soon as he had step inside the small cottage. He took just a tiny bit of pleasure in seeing the bloody piece of furniture turned over.

It was a 3 hour car-drive away from London, and his second stop. The first had been, obviously, the closer property – An old two-story house that had once been the house of some posh English that Albion liked. Who, however, was beyond Scotland's – especially because he couldn't care less, even though it was related to his Albion.

His wee brother had an unhealthy love for acquiring houses and castles, and Scotland strongly suspected that many nobles had actually left their places to the blond Briton. Scoffing, he put the armchair back in its place, ignoring how it seemed to be a bit shaky. Oh well.

The cottage, curiously, had nothing to do with famous Englishman (or woman). It had to do with them. He, England, Ireland and Wales – Them. They would, during times of war times with one another, get together in this cottage and drink. And fight. And drink some more. And then pass out. And when morning came they would all leave knowing there was no bad blood between them as personifications, as brothers.

And he was goddamn happy that Albion kept this cottage (and apparently took very good care of it as well), but he was ten times more pissed that Albion was not here.

Cursing his brother's damn vices, he searched for his phone. Quickly turning it on and 'unlocking' it, he found Canada in his contacts (under Matthew William's alias, just in case.) and clicked on it. "Oy! Found 'im?"

"..."

"Aye. I'll find ye."

"..."

"No, Alb- England is our priority. Stay put,"

As his phone smashed against the opposite wall, Scotland couldn't say he was pleased with the destruction. The bampot* had found his Albion.

Things could turn ugly. And pretty damn quick as well.

Putting a cigarette in his mouth on his way out of the cottage, he prayed to whatever God was above that things would finally settle down after all this keech*.

"Albion, hold on a little while longer,"

As he told the cab driver the address given to him, Scotland made a promise: he would not rest until his Albion could look at him in the eyes and say 'I'm alright', not happy 'cause being happy is overestimated – But 'Alright', 'alright' was going to be enough for now. After that he would work fucking hard 'till his Albion smiled like he used to.

Because he damn well missed the grin aimed at him when they won World War I. And he had to admit the kiss wasn't bad either.

(oOo)

Canada couldn't help but worry. And as he hugged kumajiro (was it?) tighter, he sighed. Scotland was mad, he could tell. Just as well as he could tell the man's mood would lighten when he saw England. If England was okay that i-

_No_.

England will be okay – he has to be.

He just hoped America wouldn't do anything stupid.

"Who are you?"

Glancing at the polar bear in his arms, and the one who asked the question, he smiled sadly before answering. "I'm Canada"

"Who?"

Sighing, he decided to ignore the bear. It wouldn't matter anyway. Kumahiro always forgot his name, really, it was a given... Unlike a certain island nation. "Arthur-" _Be safe_.

And than his phone rang.

"Hello?"

(oOo)

He supposed he had to give America kudos for not grimacing or wrinkling his nose at either the sight or smell of puke, but, then again, he probably, no, _definitely_ had seen worse. "A- America,"

"Iggy," And the way America had said it, with a steeled determination, made England wary, nervous.

No more words were exchanged as the American, with quick steps, was by the Briton's side. England narrowed his eyes at the younger nation when he recognized a flash of-

"Don't." He hissed, effectively halting the American, who had reached for the creased clothes and gave him a confused look.

"_Don't. You. Dare. __**Pity**__.__**Me**_" He said, spitting the last two words out as if they were venom.

Wide eyed, the American stared for a while before nodding slowly. "Okay,"

England tensed when America begun to dress him, and did not relax even when the man finished and gave two steps back. Suspicion was clear in every line of his face.

"I- I didn't think you would be the one to find me,"

_'I thought it would be Scotland, I wanted him, needed him'_, was left unsaid, but the American understood. He fisted both his hands in anger at being so quickly dismissed, so easily brushed aside, but he reined in his temper, he bit his own tongue to stop himself from asking '_Why? Why him?_'.

The answer would probably hurt as much as a punch to his gut.

"It was luck, well, minus that one cottage – Scotland insisted on that one... Even though there was no address," He answered, obviously wanting an explanation – which he did not get. Well, minus for the gentle smile that the pale and cracked lips of the Briton formed. "The rest was sorted."

The American didn't think the Brit could still smile like that. And his surprise must have shown in his face for veiled amusement danced in the Englishman's eyes.

With the American's next words though, the light atmosphere quickly gave place to a tense one that both new would soon be filled with accusations, with truths better left unsaid.

"Iggy- England, we need to talk,"

The American would seize this opportunity – probably the only one he would have – to clean the dirty laundry. _This was it._

(oOo)

_Translations:_

Lowland (a Scottish dialect).

* bampot = person of dubious intellect

* Keech = Shit

_Soundtrack for this chapter:_

1) England Solo – The Smiths (Please please please let me get what I want, I Know it's Over)

2) Scotland Solo – Slipknot (Duality)

3) Canada – none

4) England, America – Les Misèrables (The Dream I Dreamed)

**+ SUPER IMPORTANT! READ, PLEASE!**

**Do you guys prefer shorter chapter and faster updates (every Saturday) or longer and slower (Every, say, two - three weeks)?**

**+ When I reach 100****th**** review I will post a one-shot, and the next to the 150****th**** I will do the same. They won't be in the FI universe, no... They will be unrelated, but will be England-centered. And probably angst/hurt-comfort/drama, but may also be fluffy/romantic/smut. Really, it depends on my mood.**

**Anyway; I have the one-shot for the 100****th**** chapter almost ready! Yay! :D**

**Summary: England decides to clean his attic, and old memories, better laid to rest in the back of his mind and never thought of, come back with full force. **


	11. Chapter 10

Warning: Implied malexmale relationship (Later on), depression, self harm, eating disorder, and NOT ROMANCE-CENTERED.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, it belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya (Great man, him)

Pairing: ScotEng.

A/N: Here is the new chapter.** I would like to thank the latest chapter reviewers:**

BaraKiryuHuntress: I will give you more, all right! *punches the air* But here is handkerchief, hun, if it gets too sad. Or angst. Or just plain emotional :)

HoshiUta: Aw~ Thank you! *Hugs tightly* Your review actually teared me up (And deities only know how hard that is). And me too! I also love angst and depressed England - But that might be because I actually love to love to write drama/tragedy/hurt-comfort stories... Anyways! About Scotland... GYA! I don't mind writing an antagonistic Scotland, but I just couldn't! And I actually do think he (Scot) would be more of a grudgingly in love/overprotective brother with/to England than hateful. Although I am not completely against a hateful Scotland (even if clichéd) 'cause sometimes we just need a jerk character X) OH! And your answers shall all be answered in this chapter, hope you like it XD

MMOliveSaints: Thanks~ And I hope you ARE prepared! In case thus isn't the case... Here *hands over a box of tissues*. Enjoy! :D

CrazyHetaliaFan: Yup, feels... Feels everywhere! *open arms* And this one has even more! (Or so I hope). Ohhhh, they kissed - the circumstances will be explained on this chapter. And sorry for making you wait, hun.

Byakusharinnegan: Honestly, you made my day. My cheeks hurt all day because I wouldn't stop smiling, and I regret nothing. You are awesome! Seriously. Thank you for the reviews! :D Btw, which mangas do you read? I ask because I LOVE manga as well, my world would crumble without them. So, what are your top five (or ten if you're up to it...).

That one guest: So... I personally think you will like this chapter (Hope so, at least), but I won't say why :) And sorry for the late update.

Sora Resi: Thank you~! You're brilliant! :D

Flavinja: oh thank you! Scottie is rude all right! XD I think you are going to both dislike and like him when this fic ends Hahahha Sorry. There is no evidence of the cutting because as England is a nation, the skin just knits back together :) Yay! I am happy that you're liking the chapter :D I hope I can keep the quality~

**Warnings: Curse words, mention of torture (very light, nothing graphic at all) , and... Feels (?).**

Words: 5000+ (Longest so far!)

+ Partially revised (Again) - A huge thank to _HoshiUta_! For pointing out the mistake.

**(oOo)**

**Chapter 10**

The silence was tense, heavy - uncomfortable. And neither of them dared to break it. America because he wanted to say a lot of things, to understand a few things as well, but he did not know how (or where to) begin. England was just stunned into silence.

The Englishman was processing the American's last words over and over again in his mind, trying to understand what the younger nation could possibly mean with those. 'We need to talk'. The first meaning, the obvious one, of such words strung together seemed impossible, utterly improbable as well. Just no, he told himself with vehement conviction. The mere thought of it made a lump form in England's larynx, and his tongue grew heavy and numb - unable to function properly. He looked for every possible meaning , going as far as browsing through some of his colonies (butchered) English. Nothing. His resolution wavered. Was it... No. No it wasn't possible, he thought to himself while glancing at the American who kneeled in front of him. It simply couldn't be possible.

But just the thought of the possibility sent a jolt of venomous and vicious feelings to England's heart that startled said Englishman, although he did not show.

America repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, like a fish out of the water having difficulties to breath. His fists clenched and unclenched, the fingers and knuckles white. And his eyes, they were what made England's green - dull, old, weary - eyes lock onto the younger nations blue ones. The American's eyes were bright, and as blue as always, however, there was something in them - shining, burning - that England couldn't seem to put his finger on. And it unnerved the Englishman more than he cared to admit. Just like the words, he tried to recall all the emotions he knew and analyze. Which one, he wondered, which one?

He prided himself in being able to read America like an open book: easy to understand his actions (both past and future), easy to know how he would act in certain circumstances, and why, easy to grasp his feeling and emotions. EasyEasyEasy. But, now, for the first time... England couldn't. A wild card. That's what the American was - A wild card.

"Ig- England," The blue-eyed man started, shoving both hands in his jackets pockets, as his eyes peered down at the Englishman, hoping to find something that would encourage him on. The blank stare he received certainly did not help. "England... I- I'm... I- Why- Please,"

Frustrated, America bit on his lip and, unknown to England, closed his hands so tightly that the blunt nails of his hand broke the skin of his palm. With narrowed eyes, the American avoided looking at the Englishman, who, by this point, had his mouth opened in a small 'o', as if the situation had finally sunken in. "Iggy, look, I know we have our differences, but I wanna-"

He stopped. Breathed in deeply, and begun once again from the scratch.

"No, that's not it. England... I know we have been at odds for centuries. And it is partially my fault, but I want to mend these gaps, build bridges. We are known for having a "special relationship" and I want this to become true! I want us to be friends, and stop being at each others throat every damn meeting. I want us to go hang out like I do with Japan. I want us to be able to confide in each other! I want... I want to have you back in my life, I-"

"_Shut up_,"

Green eyes burned with undiluted rage as they pinned down on the American, lips twisted in an ugly scowl that, coupled with his eyes, made the Englishman quite a scary site. "**Don't-You-Dare-To-Continue**."

The American looked at the Brit as if he had grown a second head. "Iggy-"

"_**SHUT UP**_!" England shouted, his face reddening with his anger. "_DON'T_ you _DARE_ talk to me as if you understand me! YOU _DON'T_! And DON'T act all high and mighty because of this 'let's be friends' idea of yours," He scoffed at the last part, his nose wrinkling in disgust as if the idea itself made him sick - and it actually struck a cord in the American's silent figure, whose anger was quickly growing to match the Brit's own. "I _TRIED_ to make amends with _YOU_, but what did you do?! **_YOU LAUGHED AT ME YOU BLOODY UNGRATEFUL BRAT_**! And them told Japan I was _WEIRD_!"

"YOU ALWAYS ACT AS IF YOU ARE THE OWNER OF THE TRUTH! SO HERE IS A NEW FACT TO YOU, YOU BLOODY FATASS! THE WORLD IS GOING TO DESTROY YOU! THEY ARE JUST BIDDING THEIR TIME TO PLUNGE YOU INTO DARKNESS, TO MAKE SURE THEY DESTROY ALL YOU BUILT AND PUT A DAGGER ON YOUR BACK!" England screamed, tears prickled at the back of his eyes, but he paid no attention, too absorbed in his speech. For the first time in years, he could finally say what he thought, what weighed his chest - And it felt good.. "THEY ARE GOING TO BREAK YOU IN TINY PIECES BECAUSE THEY FEAR YOU, AND MOST HATE YOU JUST FOR THE POWER YOU HAVE! DO YOU THINK YOU HAVE FRIENDS?! HA! BLOODY HA!"

Finally calming down a bit, the Brit let his right hand, which previously had been pointing straight into America's face, fall to his side, and with a weak voice, he finished. "I was going to protect you from all these hounds, but you chose to leave. And you never looked back. You didn't even had the decency of finishing the bloody battle. I had taught you better than that. Why, America? Why?! Wasn't I even worth the courtesy you grant to a fallen enemy?"

"I was going to protect you from these greedy and lying pigs, you and all the others. But you all abandoned me, slapped my hand away - as if I had a disease. Why?"

"_Why_?" He whispered sadly, lost.

Tears streamed down his face as he stopped talking, voice horse and throat burning, his face quickly losing all the color. Like an old rag doll, the Brit slumped, and fell slightly to the side, as if all his energy had been sucked away with his speech. "Iggy,"

There was no anger, not even a hint of it, in the American's voice. The younger nations hand was warm as it toughed the slightly pointy shoulder of the Englishman, who refused to look at the American. "Iggy,"

Green eyes finally moved away from the door and stared at America, who smiled gently. "Y'know, Canada said I had to have more tact when I talk to you, be gentler. I never thought that was the case because you're strong, I didn't think I had to mind my words when I was with you, but... You're not, are you?"

Being at the end of such a hateful glare, the American sweat a bit, but grinned wildly to cover his discomfort. "You're strong, Iggy, you're- What? The sixth, fifth, biggest economy in the world? Man! You're one of the world's leading nations even after your decline! You're strong. But... I forgot you had a heart too, Iggy. And that wasn't cool of me."

"I mean," He continued when the hateful glare turned to a confused one. Silently, he patted himself, it seemed they were finally getting somewhere... "I treated you as if you hadn't suffered losses. As if you hadn't wounds in your heart. And recent ones too... Iggy, you lost Hong Kong in 1997. You lost a lot of colonies - which I am strongly against, but that's not the case - after World War II, and- Dude! That was less than sixty years ago! Had you ever had time to heal, Iggy? I know you have your Commonwealth-thingy, but I also know they don't interact all that much with you, do they?"

"I'm sorry for not turning back on that day Iggy - I really am. But..."

"France told me not to, that you might attack me. And now I know, I know he only wanted me to hurt you even further. And it was stupid of me to believe him. But I can't turn back the time, and I all I can offer is my apologies, Iggy. About not finishing it... Well... I couldn't shoot you for the same reason you didn't shot me, yeah? Man! You took care of me! You taught me so - so - much. I couldn't do it... Even looking at your fallen form in the mud... It was too hard, too much. I was coward, and for that I am sorry as well. Iggy?"

"I'm sorry,"

Sighing, the Englishman, squirmed a bit on his spot, finding his back and bottom hurting for spending so much time sitting on the same place, the floor. Under the attentive eyes of the American, he got up and slowly walked towards the bed. Padding a bit at the mattress to removed the excess of collected dust, he sat on it. Then looked at the waiting, fidgeting American.

Pointing at the door, he said two words. "Get out,"

"WHA-!" America begun to protest, but soon halted when he saw the Brit's appearance. Eyes puffy and red from crying, red nose, tear tracks on his cheeks, a bitten and swollen lips with a bloodied scratch on them - A mess, he summed up. "Get out, America,"

He was afraid, the American understood after a few seconds. Afraid. Because he has a heart, you idiot, he reprimanded himself. It must have bring unwanted memories, and hurt him. For a second America considered leaving the room and calling Scotland to tell him their location, and leave things at that. But it wouldn't solve a thing.

For an infected gash to heal, he thought, it must be opened again and all the pus and shit let out. It hurts like a bitch, it makes you wish you had never opened it, however, in the end, you're glad you did it, for then you can begin to heal. With a small and saddened smile, he told the Brit 'no'.

"**NO**?!" England shouted, ignoring the sting in his throat. "WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE YOU FUCKING BRAT?!"

"Iggy," America said calmly to the Englishman. "You screamed everything you wanted, so I must have the same privilege. I will tell you everything I think about us,"

It shut him up pretty fast, the American mused.

"I... I know I laughed at you in the meeting, but... Seriously, dude, I thought you were playing a prank on me. You came all serious and no-nonsense, when normally you are frustrated and yelling treats and what-not at me... And I know how stupid it was for me think so!" He said the last past hastily when the Brit, face contorted in distress, opened his mouth to say something, and closed it with a loud snap (which the American, once again, found pretty funny). "So, yeah, sorry. But I would like us to be friends, y'know? You are pretty cool, most of the time anyway, and you are an awesome guy to have my back. I am pretty sure those hounds wouldn't dare come near us if we are a team, huh? And you would be able to point my flaws! And... And... Seriously! I don't act as if I know everything, do I? Dude! That's not fitting of a Hero, but-"

"Shut up," England said, interrupting the American's incessant blabbing, holding one hand up when America looked at him with an offended huff. "I understand... I can certainly see your reasonings and why you did some of those things, and certainly... I know you are not the only one to blame for this" And here he pointed between them, as if he could physically show the gap in existence. "This gap, this distance, is as much my fault as it's yours... I also ignored you... And I... Want to forgive you... I think I do anyway, but, right now, I don't think I can... It still hurts America. It hurts everyday, every second. I don't know... How I can still breathe, America, because it's like a have to carry a huge weight on my shoulders, bigger than the world... And I simply don't know how to make it any lighter. And I don't know how to forgive you... I- I..."

As the tears begun to fall one more time, England cursed, only to look up and see the smiling face of the American, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears that begun to fall one at a time. "Heh, Iggy,"

"I forgive ya, no need to worry, 'kay? About you forgiving me... Let's give some time, yeah?"

Happy. He felt happy, England realized with a start, and he smiled weakly at the younger nation in front of him. Were things really that easy? No they were not, but... "America,"

"America... You know we won't be able to fix our broken relationship in a jiffy, yes? It will take time, it will be tiring, and there will be days we will be giving two steps back instead of forward... Do you still want to try?"

The American looked at him with wide eyes before he broke into a huge grin. "I'm willing to try, old man! HAHHAHAH! Let's give our best!"

Smiling with a bit more of confidence, England nodded. The veil of silence that fell over them was quite different from the one they started with. Light and fluid, it was comfortable, for one. As if the sound of their breathes, with a few tear-filled chuckles and sniffs, was the most relaxing sound there was. America sat by England's side and threw his arm over the smaller nation's bony shoulders. "You gotta get better, Iggy,"

"So we can kick ass,"

Chuckling, the Brit agreed. And as the sun filtering through his window diminished in intensity, England wondered if he was already on the path of recovery. Looking at America, his... Friend (It sounded nice, it felt right), the Brit thought that that might be the case. "Yes, we will kick ass all right brat,"

The light smile that graced the American's sharp features was enough to convince the Brit that he was no longer his little brother. And when he broke down crying once again, the American held him, the same smile still on his lips. As if he understood perfectly what the Brit was going through.

**(oOo)**

"Y'know, Iggy," America said after a while, both of them lying on the bed that, although a bit hard on the back was better than the floor. "You never told me why you trust Scotland so much... HAHAHHA!" He laughed suddenly when noticing the strange look the Brit was giving him. "You don't-"

"There is no mystery, America, I think I can sum it up in three items" England answered. "First, he is my brother - Actually blood and flesh, like you and Canada."

"And living in this huge damn confusing world... Well, Family, even if annoying and a pain in the ass, is something too precious to throw away because of disagreements - especially the ones in the past. We are nations, America, we shouldn't hold grudges for too long."

America tilted his head to the left before asking. "But don't you hate France? And Spain? An Prussia?"

Smiling, green eyes a bit glazed, the Brit answered. "France and I are... _Frenemies_. We are always at each others throat, but, deep down we care for one another... It's complicated I guess. And someone young like you might have difficulties to accept this but we have history. Bloody and littered with conflicts, but history. And we have our caring moments, rare and as far between as they are. Spain is just plain annoying. And Prussia is irritating and aggravating. That Albino drives anyone crazy... But I do **not **hate them... Hate is a too strong word to use so lightly."

He poked America's cheek, silently telling him to stop grinning like a fool. Or a deranged man. But the thought of a peaceful England (holding 'Make love Not war' posters and saying 'peace bro') almost sent him in a fit, and, under the Brit's glare, he giggled.

"Second... America, you know my brothers weren't... Ideal... When I was young, correct? You have heard the... Rumor mill, yes?"

"Yeah, but- Dude! No!" He exclaimed, practically jumping out of the bed. "That's wrong!" He stated firmly, knitting his brows in a mix of worry and fury.

"It's... Now. America, you have to understand that times change, and with it cultures and practices are either passed down to the next generation or forgotten. My brothers - Ireland, Scotland and Wales - lived in a time that wars were a constant. Fighting was as natural as breathing. My mother, and obviously theirs, had been fighting a losing battle against Rome (Yes, America, the Italy Twins Grandpa, the Roman Empire, now shush)"

"As I was saying; she lost, obviously. Men and women battling with rudimentary spears and arrows against fully armed man? There never was a chance. The killing spree of the Romans, the ethnocide of the culture of her people - barbarians, according to the Romans, contributed to my mothers death. I was born to replace her, and that didn't sit well with my brothers, who blamed me for her death. And to rub salt in the injury, I took her name - Albion - and used as my own. They were enraged; they hunted me night and day, threw rocks at me, tried to coerce me into lakes-"

"Is that why you never learned to swim? Are you afraid of entering water because of them?" Asked the preoccupied American.

"Yes, it is." He confirmed sadly. It was a fear he was never capable of overcoming, even when he became a pirate. America nodded before gesturing that he could continue.

"Well, where was I? Oh, yes, then, not long after I was born, maybe two decades after I was born, the Romans finally captured me. They brandished their symbol on my chest and back-"

"What do you mean brandished?!" America questioned, terror sketching on his face. "You don't mean they-"

"Burned their mark on my flesh, yes. Like a slave. I was property America... Do you need a moment?" He asked kindly, noting the greenish tint on the younger nation's face. "Nah, continue, Iggy,"

"So- well." He cleaned his throat. "I didn't trust Scotland back then, it took him all the Roman reign and a bit more to convince me that he, Scotland, didn't hold ill-feelings or will towards me anymore. It wasn't just like that," He said, snapping his fingers to demonstrate his point.

"Anyway, I went to Hadrian's Wall everyday... it was the physical representation of my shackles, marking me just as much as the symbols burned on my flesh. I went there to- to give myself a resolution, strength. To remind myself exactly _why_ I had to fight. Well,continuing,"

England stopped to take a shaky breathe in, his green eyes shut tightly - as if just the memories could physically hurt him. He resumed with a slightly rough voice, and America wondered if he would start to cry. He wouldn't blame the older man, he himself felt like crying. And punching something. Or someone.

"At first I would encounter Scotland at the border and he would growl at me, obviously thinking I was going to trespass and try and claim his lands in the name of the bloody Roman Empire - as if. As the time passed by, we begun to... Interact, not smoothly at first, Heavens no. There were grave offenses and punches thrown at each other in the first few decades. But then..."

"You can't stay mad at someone who takes good care of you, America," He whispered. "No, no, you can. But I couldn't, because he was being nice to me - And he was the first person to do so. And I know for a fact he never lied to me. Actually that's one of the things I like the most about him: He doesn't lie. Simply because he can't be bothered by this. It would be too much of a hassle!"

"But! He was a jerk to you!" The American argued.

"Yes, but when you are being tortured by your 'owner', and nobody seems to care if you are going to survive or not you tend to lean on the first person who offers you comfort. For me it was Scotland. So I forgave him, and after 400 or 500 centuries of him taking care of me, I decided to try and trust him."

_And the fact he kept that promise... 'I will always be here,'. Even after- During war times or peace, he was always there, standing next to one of my most hated historical monuments, leaning on it with a lit cigarette on his mouth and staring at the sky. How could I hate someone who kept his word even when **I **was the one to hurt him? It's impossible to hate, heck!, dislike a men like this...,_ England thought, a smile - soft, sweet, lovingly - gracing his lips. Fingers intertwining, he laughed quietly at the American's gob smacked face. _Scotland kept his promise even after almost two thousand years, it's hard to find someone so dedicated, and I... He won my undying loyalty as well, America, can you fathom how much this means to me? How deep our bond is? How strong? I would rather see the world burn than Scotland's demise... Is it... Cruel of me?_

The American, too stunned to delve deeply on what he heard in the mean time and unaware of the thoughts swirling inside his friend's mind, smiled. "Gees! Okay, I guess... Wait! What's the third reason?"

"Ah! So you noticed... Hm," England said, looking at the American as if he was wondering if he should tell him a secret or not. "Very well, but you can't tell this to anyone, do you hear me?"

Nodding profusely, the American grinned, only to have his grin whipped out of his face with the Brit's next words. "America, I love him."

The world stopped for a whole second before America screamed. "WHAT?!"

"Hm. I held a fond affection of him for centuries, but I believe this new development is quite recent. Actually... I think I begun to fall for him after the... You know... Our... Big fight."

"I repeat, WHAT?!"

Shrugging, the Englishman smiled, bid the American good-night, and promptly fell asleep.

America, mouth hanging open, slowly shook his head. "Brits are a crazy bunch," He muttered while incredulously looking at a sleeping England. "Crazy,"

Lying once again, he smiled. England had trusted him with a big (Because, seriously, it wasn't small) secret of his. It meant he was willing to try and be friends. The happy thought stayed with the American 'til he also fell in Morfeu's arms.

**(oOo)**

He didn't care if he was making a racket or not as he run upstairs. He was alone because Canada said something came up (something about getting someone at the airport...) and he wouldn't be able to accompany the Scot. Scotland, actually, did not mind as long as the Canadian didn't get himself in some kind of problem, and didn't bring any surprises back to his and Albion's house.

He had already searched both the ground floor and the second one, this - the third - was the last one. Unless Albion had rolled himself up in the attic, which he didn't believe the blond would do. Too un-gentlemanly. Although, if he was truthful, Albion was a mess - And he shouldn't trust previous knowledge to predict his Albion's next course of actions. "Bloody Hell!"

Crashing one door down on his haste wasn't something uncommon for Scotland. But crashing one door down to see his Albion lying on bed with the American idiot was... Unusual, to say the least of it.

Of course he would never go around pointing fingers at his wee brother. Albion held his heart, and the Scot also trusted 100% on the Englishman. He did not care that Albion and America had slept in the same bed, he knew - _knew_ - his wee Albion held no such affections for the brat.

With care not to wake Albion, he tip toed to the other side of the room, grabbed America by his shoulders and pulled him - hard. Of course he made sure to cover the brat's mouth, so his screams would be muffled and not bother his Albion. "Wh-hmph!"

Disorientated, America tried to shake the Scot off, not knowing that it was him. "Shut the fuck up, brat," The red head man hissed.

"Now, what happened?" He asked, concern flashing in his eyes as his anxiety grew. "Tell me!"

"We talked, we... We had a lot of dirty laundry to clean, Scotland," Was the American's answer. It was obvious the boyo didn't want to delve further - it was personal. And while Scotland didn't give a damn about this kind of shit, he nodded to him, showing him he understood.

The flabbergast expression on the American's face was hilarious.

To suddenly be punched was not.

"What the feck you think you are doing you little piece of shit?" He growled angrily, blood pumping in his veins, urging him to take on the challenge, to pounce on the bratty child in front of him and show who was the boss. But the thought of an displeased Albion held him back. "**HUH**?!"

"This was for being a- What's the word? Ah! A _Git_ when you guys were younger! You weren't cool, dude!" The American said matter of fact-ly.

Arching a brow, he licked the trail of blood that fell from his lips to his chin, the taste of blood - metallic - making his need to fight even stronger. "Shut the fuck up, you ignorant shit,"

"I will grab, Albion, you start the car," He ordered as he tossed the keys to the stunned American, who had been waiting for the older man to punch him or something. "Go!"

When he was finally on his own with his wee Albion, he glanced at the blond. And, putting a lit cigarette on his mouth, teeth clumping down on it, he grinned unabashedly at the cute picture his brother made.

"Let's go wee Albion, let's go home, so you can rest." He whispered gently, while positioning his arms so as to ensure maximum comfort to the green eyed nation; one on the back and the other under the knees. "And up!"

Hoisting the blond in his arms with one single and fluid motion. "I made one promise long ago, and then one more today, now, at 23:56 PM, I make a third my wee Albion,"

"_I will always love you_, no matter what. So don't be afraid to tell me your secrets, dear Albion. And the skeletons in your closet? They don't bother me in the slightest, drag them out and parade them in front of me, aye?"

As he dragged both of them, fatigued, tired and battered, through the threshold he snickered when he saw his wee brother was drooling.

When he finally got to the front door and saw the American already inside the car. Their eyes connected, blazing emerald and bright blue. A silent message. _**Truce**_. _For England_.

Scotland shook his head, hiding a smirk. Albion always got the strangest people to be loyal to him. He himself included.

"And don't think you will escape our conversation, my wee Albion, because we have much to discuss..." He quietly informed the sleeping man before slipping him in the back seat and entering right after.

"Put your feet on the accelerator, brat," He said as he gently put Albion head on his lap and carded his fingers through the soft hair of his wee brother. "I wanna get Alb- England on clean clothes before he gets something from staying too long in such a dirty place,"

America coughed to hide a laugh and started to maneuver the car out of it's parking lot, then he realized he was playing the chauffeur, and heatedly glared at the Scot. _You will pay me_.

"Heh," Scotland said, his eyes shining with amusement. "Eyes on the road, brat,"

And looking down, he had to admit, at least to himself, that whatever the brat and his Albion talked must have helped the latter, immensely.

Because he had never see Albion smiling so much in his sleep.

'So thank you, American idiot, for helping my Albion', he thought while thinking that, for the first time, his wee brother was finally getting on the right track.

**(oOo)**

Soooo- I made it extra long! Did you like it? AmericaxEngland confrontation (was it good? I never wrote something similar to it before...), the reason why England trusts Scotland so much (Convincing enough?) and the promise of one more confrontation (ScotlandxEngland), plus! Who was Canada going to get at the airport? Dundundundun!

READ MY OTHER FIC: "Mon Amour, Mon petit lapin, Mon Angleterre".

Ya now, I am sorry if it took so long, but my laptop is dead, kinda. He is a coma, to be more precise, and I don't know when he is coming back (don't wanna even think about 'if'). So I'm writing on my ipad (thank ya dad! Even though you would probably hate to know what I am writing on it!). Anyways, thank you all for reading! Leave reviews (pretty please)?

+ Before I forget! I will make an update every saturday (Holidays~ Finally~!) and one tomorrow (Because now I can HAHAHAHHA)!

**Have an awesome weekend!,**

**OfSilveryFeathers**


	12. Chapter 11

Warning: Implied malexmale relationship (Later on), depression, self harm, eating disorder, and NOT ROMANCE-CENTERED.

Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine, it belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

Pairing: ScotEng.

Words: 2500

A/N: Here is the new chapter, it is more of a transitional chapter, so there is not much action. **I would like to thank the latest chapter reviewers:**

**Chayton: Thank ya! And here is the new chapter~! I hope you like!**

**HoshiUta: Oh dear! I will end up writing a purely ScotEng romance/drama if I were to explain their whole relation- Oh! I think you just gave me a new idea for a fanfic...! Soooo cool! ... Hem hem *clears throat* So, thank you for the review, it's lovely. And I already made a few changes that I hope you liked :) And... CORRECT! Your guess about who Canada went to pick up, I mean hehehhe. **

**MMOliveSaints: Thanks~ I'm happy you liked the chapter. And yeah, the abuse ('cuz that's what it is, wasn't nice. But it were different times and what not... Oh well! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.**

**CrazyHetaliaFan: Yay! Thank you! And here is the update! Soon enough? X)**

**Byakusharinnegan: Yup! America should worry, Scotland isn't the type to let some lad punch him and get away with it ;)**

**That one guest: Heck yeah! I'm happy you liked it so much!**

**Sora Resi: Seriously? Cool! :D And thank you for the review!**

**Flavinja: I think the mixed feelings are going to remain, hun. Sorry, I guess x) On another note... HAH! See? I updated, kept my word :p Hahhahaha, I hope you like this chapter.**

_Warnings: None._

**(oOo)**

**Chapter 11**

They had only arrived very late into the night, in the early hours of the morning to be more precise. And England woke up because he wanted a cuppa - Of darjeeling. America was the first to go down, drained both emotionally, physically and mentally, he slept like a rock. A few hours later, three - two of which completely unexpected - guests arrived, all crashing almost immediately after making the arrangements for their stay. And then only Scotland and England were up, both tired, but incapable of falling sleep.

"How are they?" The Englishman asked quietly while he got up from his bed. Outside, the first rays of sunshine had begun to illuminate the British soil, and looming grey clouds lazily crossed the sky, A few birds, probably robins, sung happily as night and day exchanged places once again in their interminable cycle. The green gaze of the Englishman, however, wasn't on his window, noticing any of this, but on the red headed man on his threshold. "How are they, Alba?"

They - America, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. The four brats, as Scotland dubbed them. The first two he had grudgingly accepted as a part of his wee brother healing process and, as such, two additions to their - his and Albion's - household. The last two, however, had been a surprise. And an unpleasant one at that. He certainly had been pissed when the Canadian arrived at the manor with the two Oceanic* siblings at his heels. Albion, on the other hand, had been elated. Of course Albion did not show how happy he was, instead hiding his true feeling behind bitting remarks and dramatic speech's about not having respect for their elders. All bullshit, really, Scotland saw the tiny smile and how his brother's green eyes were ablaze with giddiness. Silly wee Albion.

He didn't like to, under any circumstances, share Albion. However... If it made Albion happy (like now), he was willing to... Play nice. For a while. Then he would kick all their foreign butts out of their British soil. Scowling a bit at the thought of the brats downstairs, the Scot entered the room, and with quick steps he was near the smaller Brit, his hands twitching to touch him, to make sure that there were no injuries on his alabaster skin. A quick look at the nightstand proved the tea was all gone, not surprising.

"Sleeping," He answered gruffly after a few seconds. "How are you, Albion?"

The corner of the Englishman's lips turned upwards in a soft smile. "Fine... Alba?" He asked suddenly, when the Scots arm circled his shoulder and brought him closer to the muscular chest of his older brother. "Wha-"

"Shut up, Albion," Scotland said, hiding his face at the crook of England's neck and breathing in deeply on the rose scent that seemed to linger in his the man's skin. "Shut up just for a second, aye?"

Closing his eyes, England nodded minutely, his green irises with a new shine to them as they hid behind his lids. He sniffed quietly, discreetly trying to memorize his brother's smell. Cigarettes and ale, with a deep ingrained earthy scent mixed in. Probably from all those centuries in the forest. "Alba... What do I smell like?"

There was a moment of silence before Scotland answered, caught of guard as he was by the question as he was. "Like roses, and tea. And an odd mixture of the sea and earth."

"Isn't it strange?" England asked, furrowing his brows at the unusual combination. Alba's was much more... Harmonious. His was so... "I think it fits you, my wee Albion, and it's nice. I never get tired of your smell."

Cheeks tinting a bit with red, the Englishman finally pushed the Scot away, putting, at least, a few inches of distance between their bodies. "Alba..."

"You're such a prude sometimes, Albion," The Scot said, a tender smile playing on his lips as he carefully approached the younger Brit once again.

"Sh-Shut up!" England said, face as red as Spain's tomatoes. "A-Alba...?!"

The way he stumbled over his words made the Scot crack up as his fingers run up and down his wee Albion's sides, making pearls of laugh escape the pink lips. "S-St- _STOP_!" He shouted the last word, closer to a war-cry than an order or plea, especially because England pounced on Scotland, more than ready to retaliate.

They fell ungracefully on the carpeted floor, squirming away from each other's teasing fingers, and laughing. Laughing more than they both had ever laughed in a long while. When they finally stopped their game, they were both panting with their backs aching from rolling around on the floor, and were trying to regain their lost breaths. "Albion?"

The younger nation looked at Scotland, a small grin on his stretched lips and cheeks flushed from all the exert of their tickle war. All trace of laugh had been erased from his brother's sharp features, however, and as he stared at England with such a serious face, the Englishman felt his grin waste away, crumbling to pieces in a matter of instants. With a wavering voice, he asked "What?"

Their gazes connected, the emerald gaze of his older brother flicked with doubt and worry, then softened in acceptance. Of what, however, England wondered. "Wales is worried. And so is Ireland,"

Eyes widening, England quickly sat up. The understanding of the situation made his heart ache. His voice was sharp when he asked what Scotland had told them, why he had done it, why did he betray him. "Albion!" The Scot exclaimed, his emerald green eyes pleading his younger brother to listen to him, and so England did.

"They know there is something wrong because I called them - Wales only actually, but he must have called Ireland -, days ago, to warn where I was going to be, and that your Queen was worried about you." The last information made England's eyes widen. He hadn't know he had worried Her Majesty. "Just that... Then, though-. But I called them - this time both - to warn of what was - _is _- going on with you. They needed to know. I said nothing to North because he is young, and he is going to work himself into a frenzy if he hears you are-"

"You went behind my back," England whispered, brokenly. "Why?"

He would always give Scotland the benefit of the doubt. It was the least he owed to the man, however... He could feel the warring emotions within his heart: anger and understanding. Rage. "I talked to them today, when you disappeared,"

"Albion, my- I felt lost for the first time in a long time. I couldn't find you, I couldn't contact you. And to top it all of, you're - _were_ - weakened. So much could have happened to you, so fucking much. And I wasn't there to protect you."

"I was afraid, Albion... Is it so hard to believe that even I can get scared"

_Yes, yes, it is_, England wanted to scream. _You're supposed to be the strongest, to be my foundation. The one I can lean o_-. And then England stopped to think. America said he had forgotten he, England, had a heart. And it seemed he himself had done the very same to Scotland.

He was so stupid. An insensitive prick. And looking at the tortured eyes of his older brother, he felt like an idiot. Scotland could feel scared, he had a heart after all.

A lump formed in England's throat. _Okay_, he told himself, trying to convince himself, _still not good enough to contact Ireland of all people_. But when Scotland held his hand in his, and England saw the contrast between his fragile one - calloused, yes, but fragile and bony - and his brother's rougher and bigger one, he pressed his lips together, refusing to give in so early, so easily. But the truth had slapped him in the face.

And he couldn't find it in himself to be angry at Scotland. Not anymore.

"I was afraid I was going to lose ye, and I wouldn't even be there to try and fight for ye. Do ye have any idea how scary this is?... Aye, you know. It would be like the Battle of the Somme all over again, when I found ye hours after the conflict had ended - all battered and bruised, with so many bullets impaled into your body, so many..."

Scotland's eyes glazed over as if he was lost in thought, and then he shuddered and his face became pale, as if he was relieving the memories of the Battle - or, rather, of after the battle, when he found England's body.

"Alb-" "Shush, Albion, not yet... There still is so much I want to say to you,"

His voice was hoarse, and England thought he might have begun to cry if he wasn't so set on keeping up his badass image. England felt the corner of his eyes prickling with tears.

_How many times was he going to cry?,_ he thought with distaste as the tears begun to roll down his cheeks.

"And I thought we had a few more centuries, in the least, to say it all - but I don't. So I'm going to tell you now." Scotland said, his free hand caressing one of England's cheeks. "First, Ireland might have gone his own way - But I know ye miss him more than ye resent him leaving the United Kingdom."

"He cares for ye, he is just too prideful for his own good - more than I am, and that's saying something -, and as such he doesn't know how to apologize."

"Wales... Well, ye know he is a nice lad. Just a bit too introverted and into his magic, and sheep,"

"And I won't even mention North, because he is practically the apple of your eyes - or was-, you spoil him too much, by the way, wee brother."

"The thing is Albion, I needed help... I wasn't sure I could help you on my own. I ain't as strong as I like to believe I am, Albion" He whispered, his hand clutching tightly to England's. "We might fight, we might want to gut each other most of the time, but we are family Albion - Do you remember the cottage?"

With the affirmative nod from England, who was finally reigning in on his tear-ducts, Scotland felt himself encouraged to continue. "I... I asked them one more week, one more week for me to see if I will be enough, however, I don't think that week will be necessary anymore,"

"After all, we have four brats downstairs, don't we? And they seem pretty bent on helping ye, heh?... I will leave you alone for now, Albion, but I want you to remember one thing..."

"We are all here to help you, all you need to do is accept the help we offer."

As Scotland got up to leave, he felt a tugging sensation at his hand, and realized Emgland had yet to let go of his hand. "Albio-"

He was met with the desperate eyes of his brother. _Stay with me_. _**Don't go**_. "Won't you regret?" He asked gently, or as gently as he could muster. With Albion, he knew, being gentle was easier.

Gathering the blond Briton in his arms, he carried the man to his bed, and made sure he was comfortable in it before sliding in himself. "Albion, I forgot to say but... You have an appointment with Dr. Greenhill in three days, and then with a nutritionist in five. I... Are you still willing to-"

Shushing his brother by covering his mouth with his own hand, England said 'yes', his green eyes down cast and lost in thought. Scotland frowned thoughtfully as well, but smiled in the end, kissing the mop of England's blond hair. It seemed his wee brother had a lot in mind, and that was good.

England needed time to think, and he would have three full days to try and understand his situation, Scotland could understand that. And, really, the Scot mused, England always had a brilliant mind. Everything, the Scot mused as he begun to drift off, was finally falling into place.

It was only hours later that England actually fell asleep. His green irises, focused on the rise and fall of his brothers chest, closed slowly, the tiredness finally catching up to him. "Alba,"

"I won't fight anymore... I'm ready to try and get better... And... I-I love y-you,"

"I hope that one day I will be able to say it while you are awake, you git."

The sun might have been blazing outside, but, on that small manor on the outskirts of London, six nations slept profoundly, unaware that for the first time in weeks the sun shone brightly over the capital of England.

**(oOo)**

Do you guys like it? ... there wasn't that much action, but this was a very important chapter. Now we truly begin to walk the road of recovery. And towards the... *sniff* end. But there are still a few chapters to go. And do prepare you handkerchiefs! We still have a few loose treads to tie.


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Seriously? Not mine. (Belongs to amazing Hidekaz Himaruya)

Pairing: ScotEng.

Warnings: ... None, I think.

*** Notes at the end of the chapter.**

** (oOo)**

"Mr. Kirkland," She said, smiling politely, showing off her perfectly aligned white teeth, and welcoming him in her office, the door behind her opening even further in a clear show of invitation. "Good morning. And it's a pleasure to have you here- Well, no. I mean-"

"I'm terribly sorry. Of course it will be – I assure you – a pleasure to help you. I, however, wish we had met in better – or, at least, less aggravating – circumstances." She explained herself, an apologetic smile now adorning her lips, and a small blush on her cheeks. His own green eyes softened at the woman in front of him, he couldn't help smiling and assuring her it was alright, that he understood. He blamed it on his gentleman behavior.

England chose to analyze her figure as they moved inside her office. From her _mignon _form to the big doe eyes with wrinkles she had, and the blond graying hair – The way her uniform was clean and well pressed made the Englishman a bit less wary of her. It was also obvious she took care of her body, even if she wasn't a young lady anymore. A good beginning, England assumed with weak smile. "Good morning, Dr. Hills,"

She was, as he expected, a bit flustered, and – he could tell – excited. Smiling a bit more broadly, he admitted he had to hand it to her. She didn't know he was the personification of her country – unlike a certain Dr. –, no. However, as far as _she_ knew, he was a man of high status in the British well known and exclusive circles, also an advisor to the Queen and the Prime Minister. He, probably, was her biggest client – ever. And yet she quickly reigned in herself, if the professional composure she begun to treat him after a few minutes was anything to go by. "Very well, Mr. Kirkland, I would like to know the frequency with which you have been eating, and how much. Also, what kind of food."

As he told her of his poor eating habits, and saw the lines in her face deepen and jaw tighten, her thin lips pressing together firmly, he glanced around her office. Noting the wall littered with PhDs and college certificates. It seemed, he thought, he had been scheduled with one of the best nutritionist London had to offer. "- of course I haven't had dinner in many months, and my lunch..."

"Well, it's been a while as well. Most days I had gone only with the typical English breakfast."

When she asked when he started to skip meals and he found himself unable to pin-point an exact date or even how many months, or years ago, it begun... Pink dusted his cheeks as he blushed. Shame like he never felt before made him clasp his hands together and painfully squeeze them. The pity he saw – quickly smoothed, but not quick enough – made his insides twist uncomfortably. And he felt both fury and profound embarrassment quarrel in his heart.

"It is alright, Mr. Kirkland, you are not the first with such an... Emotional baggage, and I can guarantee that you won't be the last." She soothed, her blue-gray eyes shining. And England thought that she might cry, but she simply told him to go on.

If there was something England learned in the next couple of hours was that Doctor Emilia Hills wasn't a woman to be crossed. She had plain and simple told him it was a wonder he could still move, and that if it was within her power she would have strapped him to a hospital bed until she deemed him healthy enough. "Well," She said, intertwining her fingers and resting her chin on them, a few strands of blond and gray hair falling on her forehead. "We have much to do, Mr. Kirkland. Now, what I truly want to know is-"

"Are you willing to do what it takes to get better? You will have to work hard to even get marginally good. I can only assume your stomach has shrinked with what little food you have been eating, but it is mostly certain. This in and on itself will be a challenge. You will begin eating very little and then we will work our way up, yes?"

"Then we must determine what kinds of food you are allowed to eat. And in what quantity, to make sure they will be not only fattening you, but also pumping your body with all the nutrients, carbohydrates and what-not it needs."

"We will have to make a schedule to you, a tight one. And that you will have to follow to a 'T', you hear me? It's essential that you do everything exactly as you are told, Mr. Kirkland."

"However, and this is very important, you must want to help yourself. Because I cannot watch over you every step of the way, and there will come the day you will be on your own. And if you are not 100% committed to getting better, Mr. Kirkland, you will – mark my words – be sitting here with me again, the same problem in our laps once again."

"Are you ready, Mr. Kirkland?" She questioned, her gray-blue eyes focused solely on the Brit in front of her. And he was a bit ashamed to say that he actually fidgeted while under her firm gaze. A small nod, for a lump had suddenly made it impossible for him to talk, was all he could muster to answer her question.

When they had said their farewells, England felt it was one more step towards 'better'. And as he looked in Dr. Hills eyes, he felt he had found an important – vital – ally in this battle. Much like a certain psychologist, he had to grudgingly admit.

The spacious antechamber he stepped in, painted in white and decorated with earthily colors seemed a bit out of place. _Too impersonal_. Her office had had little trinkets that gave away what kind of person she was. And the photos here and there – of her and a man, probably her husband, of children, of a two woman hugging her – as well. This white waiting room didn't have clues for England to read, and the other people sitting there – waiting for their time – seemed oblivious to such.

_'Or is it I whom am reading too much in the whole bloody thing?'_ He wondered with no small amount of scorn directed to him. Why did he always had to over think everything?

Someone called for him, and he turned to see Dr. Hills smiling towards him, a glint of... Something – Pity? Compassion? – in her eyes. He arched an eyebrow. A silent question. _What?_

"Keep in mind you are no different from any other of my clients, Mr. Kirkland" She told him, a gentle smile on her pale lips and they shook hands. "In this office, **I** am the maximum authority. And I hope you _will_ follow my words. Have a good day, Mr. Kirkland. And I hope to see you next week."

As the next client – A Miss Drew Morgan – was called, England watched impassionedly as Dr. Hills turned her back to him and walked in her office, the young woman following on her heels. With a smirk he walked out of the office. Now sure he had made the right option. And that Doctor Hills could be trusted.

"An interesting woman," he would say to Alba when the red head asked him how it was and what he thought of the woman. "Thank you,"

** (oOo)**

"MOM! MOM!" The Aussie screamed, his loud voice seemingly reverberating throughout the whole house. "MO~M!"

England smiled slightly, relaxing his shoulders and flexing his fingers; preparing. And when the Aussie's body collided with his, he gasped, all air leaving his lungs in the awake of the impact, while at the same time encircling the younger nation's muscled form. "Hello," He managed to choke, his face dappling with pain before he smoothed in a pained smile. "Australia,"

Sometimes they – America, Australia, and Scotland on occasion – honest to God actually forgot how much brute force they had. But England couldn't find it in himself to scold them – not these days at least. It was too good to have the Oceanic brothers back home, and America was a forgetful idiot. Scotland would simply never learn.

"Welcome back," The Aussie warmly replied. "How was it, mom? Tell me! Tell me~! Was it okay? Was she nice? Was she any good?"

Smile growing wider as he felt the arms around him tightening before relaxing, he answered. "Good. Actually... It was better than I expected... And yes, yes, and yes, Australia."

Making his way to the kitchen, with the Aussie following behind him and still making questions that seemed – and were – redundant, the Brit chuckled. It had been a long time since he felt this comfortable. Answering all the questions fired at him without losing his composure, England asked "Tea?"

"Nah..." The Aussie began, but seeing the arched brow of his darling mom, completed. "Make me two cuppa, mom!"

"I will take one to Zezi," He exclaimed loudly, grinning wildly at the smaller blond. Zezi, England remembered, was a nickname the Aussie created for New Zealand, and which the fluffy-head blond hated with all his being.

It was with relative silence that the next few minutes passed by. And England, seeing the twitching form of Australia, knew his companion would leave soon. Not that the Brit thought the younger nation would be gone for long, no, he knew he would be seeing the Aussie again in a couple of hours, tops. Expertly serving the tea, England trail of thought – about which of his guests he would visit next – when Australia called for him with a strangled 'Mom!'.

"Uh... Where would he be, mom?" The bulkier man asked, smiling sheepishly to the Brit, two cups of steaming hot tea dangling dangerously on his hands as he moved from one foot to the other. "Zezi, I mean!"

"Careful with these cups, Australia, they are antiques." He warned before thinking where the sheep-loving nation could be – it didn't take long, he, after all, knew his children too well. "Try the library."

As the Aussie got farther and farther away, his boisterous laugh echoing in the hallways of the manor, England shook his head. Decades might pass, but Australia would always be the same obnoxious little boy he took care of so long ago. And he quite liked this. More so because the Oceanic brother never lost the – infuriating, but also kind of sweet – habit of calling him 'mom'.

He liked to know some of his children still thought of him as family - As a parent. He really, really liked it.

"Canada it's," He said, getting a small bottle of maple syrup on his way out of the kitchen.

Time to have a serious talk. Again. "I just hope he won't be too exhausted..."

**(oOo)**

As it is, he was. Exhausted, that is. But England understood. The blond slept soundly on top of various (and probably important) papers – the Canadian's workload, most likely – and watching him, England shook his head fondly, a thin smile playing on his pale lips. He knew Canada well enough to guess the blond had slept very little the last three nights; since he discovered he was lagging on his work. And either he caught up to it very fast or he would have to leave the island country and go back to Canada. England knew America was in a similar situation – And put the boy as the next one he had to pay a visit.

He and the American still had a few words left to say, he supposed.

Pinching his arm to bring his attention back to the present, the Brit still had to blink a few times to ground himself. Sighing, he reckoned he spent a lot of time in la-la-land. Not that he would ever admit such out loud. "Canada," He called, trying to keep his voice low and soothing, as to not startle the younger nation. "Canada, wake up. It's not good for you to sleep here, let's get you to the bed. Unless you wish for a cramp, then you're welcomed."

He approached the amethyst eyed man, and shook his shoulder. _Lightly_. And, finally, sleepy eyes stared up to him. "Mmmnh"

"Yes, understandable, but," And here he stopped to breath in deeply, before amking a face between a grin and a grimace. "We have to put you in bed,"

With all strength he could muster, he lifted the Canadian. Of course his muscles protested, vehemently. It didn't take long for his weakened limbs to burn with all the exert of holding a man who was taller, bulkier, and heavier than himself. "Oh bloody fucking hell," He cursed while squeezing his eyes shut, but not wavering on his way. He would put the Canadian on the goddamned bed even with it was the last thing he did.

And here he was complaining about America all the time. Maybe it was high time he did a bloody health check up on all of the Commonwealth integrant nations. All that syrup Canada ate daily mustn't be helping him any.

Then again, he thought, I'm not in the best of shapes.

When he could finally let go of the Canadian in his arms, he was happy man. His muscles burned, and he was sure the day after would be hell to pay. Looking down at the sleepy face of Canada, however, he couldn't help but smile.

He still had a long way towards recovery... But he would get there.

Kissing the blonds' temple, England recalled a phrase Dr. Greenhill had said to him at their first and – to this point – only encounter. '... You must learn to open yourself up, Mr. Kirkland. You are afraid of rejection, but how are you going to know you even were accepted if you do not open up?'

He didn't want to open up. Truly didn't. He never felt comfortable talking about his feelings, or how he felt about a particular situation. But- _But what if Greenhill was right_? Well, _if_ he was right then England dreaded to know what else he would have to do. It seemed he would have to reevaluate all his actions.

Though he saw nothing wrong with wanting to keep something to himself.

"Tight dreams, _mon fils_... _My son_" He whispered through trembling lips, nibbling a bit at them when he finished. It was scarier then he thought it would be, he acknowledged with a frown. And that's because he said while Canada had been sleep-

His train of thought was suddenly broken by two single words that felt like a bucket of cold water; merci papa. Thank you, daddy – translating from the horrid language that was French. Wide eyed, the Brit looked down at the groggy face of the Canadian, whom was supposed to be asleep. Fear was the first thing he felt, then anger, then... Then a mix of surprise and happiness filled him whole as the meaning of the words ... in his head.

He was thanking him. He called him daddy. "Am I, Canada?" He found himself asking, looking for confirmation, before he could shut his mouth "Am I your daddy? Even after everything..."

A half-assed 'biên sur' was all the Canadian said, but even in his state (read, half asleep) it was clear he thought it was a stupid question. And the answer was quick, certain. There was no doubt. 'Biên sur', of course. England never thought he could be so happy from hearing French.

Canada's French, he decided, was million times more pleasing to the ears than France's French. He might even begin to like the language!

Smiling so much his cheeks hurt, he removed the glasses from the Canadian's face, and put them on his bedside table. "Night, night" He said one last time, and then left without looking back.

He was sure he would have started to cry; from happiness, from being so startled, from being so relieved. From all this confusing emotions that he could properly name.

It had taken him two days to try something Dr. Greenhill had spoken about. But he had. And he felt... Better? Yes, a bit. Lighter? Certainly.

He hadn't really liked Dr. Greenhill. He practically rubbed salt in his wounds. He didn't want to remember, to understand. He wanted to forget.

But, apparently, this was one of the many mistakes he had been making.

_'One can't simply forget,' _He said in all seriousness, looking at England directly in the eyes. _'You have to remember so you know what afflicts you now.'_

Scratching his cheek, the Brit walked aimlessly. Not wanting to really talk with anyone anymore. Sitting at the first armchair he could find, he sunk in the comfortable cushion, and closed his eyes. Memories flitted trough his eyes; from hundreds of years ago, from millennia ago, from days and weeks and months and years ago, but he was looking for a certain a memory from a very specific time-frame. Two days ago.

** (oOo)**

It was a small office, especially if it did belong to one of the best psychologists in the UK. And it did. England did his research as soon as he uncovered the man's name; Dr. Hector Greenhill, age 63, was famous for helping difficult cases. And strange ones, as well. He gave seminaries all over the world, although now he restrained himself to Europe. He never made breakthrough discoveries about the human mind or anything similar, however, the success he had with his patients quickly made him be acclaimed as one of the best. And his discretion.

So, now, the British Government accepted to reveal one of its best – if not the best – kept secret. The fact that a personification of England existed, and attended by the name of Arthur Kirkland in public (Not that even the last fact was common knowledge). Of course England himself had put up a fight – However the Queen's icy glare silenced him, and her reasonable argument left him without room to argue.

_"How can one help you in its totality if it's not disclosed one of your fundamental characterizes? He would not be able to properly help you, dear Arthur, if he remains ignorant to how events of hundreds or, for that matter given your physical appearance, decades ago could affect you to this day and age. No, he must know. Of course he will be signing quite a bit of biding contracts with clauses that would make him think twice before disclosing your secret."_

_"To be truthful... Personification of nations? Who would believe him? He would be carted off to the closest asylum!" America decided to give his two cents, which earned him appraising (and wide eyed) stares. "What?! I can so make sense! ...You all are a bunch of jerks, y'know? " _

And thus England found himself sitting in Dr. Greenhill's waiting room, although he didn't wait long. Soon a smiling aged man came forward and shook hands with him, inviting him in and asking if he would like a drink. And when he refused with a polite smile, the man looked at him with his unnerving grey eyes and asked what he preferred to be called.

To which he arched a brow, smirked, and answered. "Kirkland,"

With a thoughtful expression, Dr. Greenhill nodded, and put more distance between them. "You don't wish for us to be close? No... You wish to maintain a strictly professional relationship. But we can't have that here, I'm afraid, especially if what I suspect is true. No, I shall call you, Mr. Kirkland, Arthur. You can call me Hector. It's a pleasure, I assure. And an honor, of course. Now, what do you wish to talk about?"

England stared at the man, only his manners stopping him from openly gapping at . "What?" He asked, awfully close to screeching. After a few seconds, though, he calmed down enough to ignore the casualness they – perfect strangers – would actually treat each other. "Very well," He accepted, narrowing his eyes at the man while resting his left ankle on top of his right knee and intertwining his hands over his lap. "By talking, however, what do you mean?"

Grey eyes flashed as Dr. Gr- no, Hector, smiled. His keen eyes, England noted, observed every twitch in his body – Reading body language, most probably. He scowled. He didn't like to be read like a book, much less to share his thoughts and feeling. It wasn't how he was raised.

"Everything, anything. We can talk about the weather, about plants, about your... Family? Whatever you want to talk about. Today, however, I want to know why you're here, Arthur."

"To get better," He answered automatically. Hector shaking his head surprised him, and the doctor's next words more so.

"That's not it. That's what others scheduled you a consult with me, Arthur. And I asked you why you have come to me. What do you want?"

"I told you! To get better! I'm sure you know about my eating disorder – you must. So what I want is to know why it began. I want to be able to understand why, and to prevent it."

Sighing, the elderly man looked at him. "Yes, I understand. And that might be one of the motives, but it's not the number one – the truly important one. All in all, I believe, Arthur, this eating disorder of your to be a consequence of whatever afflicts you,"

"Not only this, but I do believe, from what I heard about you, that whatever... Is troubling you is not recent, no, I do believe it has being coming for years, but no one was the wiser, maybe, just maybe, not even you."

"I do believe the shattering of your Empire has to do with it, America's independence, and Lady Diana's death must have had a part in it... All this impacted you in some way that only now we can see the results."

And here he gave England a searching glance, as if he suspected something more might have happened, before continuing. "I want to know the biggest reason why you are here with me today and committed yourself to meet me every week for God knows how long."

"So tell me, Arthur, why?"

England breathed in deeply, brows furrowing in concentration. He closed his lids and listened to the beating of his heart. Steady, at first, but then it begun to pound faster and faster inside his ribcage, it hurt he realized – every single beat of his heart hurt, and breathing hurt because every guffaw of oxygen seemed to burn – and he didn't want it to hurt, none of that. And when he finally looked at the sympathetic – not pitying, not saddened, but sympathetic – grey eyes of Hector, tears begun to fall from the corner of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks as he answered why he – England, Arthur Kirkland, whatever – decided, agreed, to meet Hector. "I want... to get rid of this weight."

"I don't want to feel as if I have shackles weighting me down, as if my heart is being squeezed. I want to feel... Like myself again. And I don't want to be sad – at least not all the time -, and I don't to feel angry and like I do not belong. I want... I want to be able to enjoy the time I spend with my children; I don't want to resent them for doing the exact same thing I did – sought for independence. Even more so because they agreed to join the Commonwealth, and I feel like the one that hinders any improvement in our relationships is me. And I don't want to keep holding my grudge against America, because centuries have passed and I do understand him, his reasons, his driving force. And I want... I really, really want to be myself. And not this coward that runs away from his troubles. I want to be myself, like I had been on my punk phase – I want to... I want to be myself again,"

And then he cried and cried and cried. And Hector kept silent, offering him wipe after wipe. And when he felt he had control enough his tear ducts to continue, well, Dr. Greenhill, Hector, rubbed salt in his gashes, figuratively speaking. He told him he couldn't simply forget, that it actually made things more difficult, and that he should open up. That they would work on that.

And that's how their first session ended. With a red and puffy eyed England, and Hector telling him he expected to see him next week. Then the doctor gave him the whole box of disposable wipes and pointed the bathroom, a knowing look in his eyes and a bit forced, if somewhat sad, smile on his lips.

England stayed looked in there, crying for a good half hour before having the courage and strength to get out. Only to be met with a smiling Scotland, but the lips of his brother were pulled in a saddened way, and his green eyes – so similar to his own – held no happiness or joy in them. England held tightly to his shirt and begun to cry once again, not giving a damn if any of the other patients in the waiting room could see him.

"Wee Albion," Scotland whispered gently while his rough fingers carded trough England's blond hair "It's gonna tah be alright, lad. Aye, it's."

And England truly wanted to believe his words, as farfetched as they seemed in this moment. Because they gave him hope, and they gave him strength to mark his next session with Dr- Hector. And they gave him the courage he needed to actually go to said session.

"Let's go home, Alba," He managed to choke out somehow.

(oOo)

Screaming broke him out of his daze. Australia, he recognized, and New Zealand. Sighing, he rolled his eyes in a tired manner. He knew this was coming; it was, after all, a daily ritual. Australia and New Zealand fighting, Australia and America fighting with Scotland, Scotland snapping at everyone but him, and he stopping the Scot by promising said man his favorite beer and cigarettes – All daily rituals. And England would be lying if he said he didn't like them.

He thought about his next appointment with Hector and a part of him – small, but there – was anxious. Another – even smaller – thrilled. And an even bigger part didn't want to see the man at all. Pushing all these thoughts away, England got up and followed the loud voices of his children. "Australia! New Zealand!" He shouted as a form of warning.

The screaming match ceased, but he knew two pissed Oceanic nations awaited for him. To determine who was right and who was wrong, as well as to ensue the punishment for the one who was in the wrong. Which, really, could be either or.

Shaking his head, England chuckled lightly, his eyes slightly moist from remembering the first meeting with Dr. Greenhill, he liked how noisy his house had become. It had been a long time since there was so much life infused in it.

"IT WAS HIM!" The Oceanic brothers pointed to each other accusingly as soon as they saw their mother. "SHUT UP! ... STOP COPYING ME!"

"MOM!"

He would need a bit of rum after that, he just knew.

** (oOo)**

The sky was begging to dark when England made a detour. He had being going to talk to Scotland, but actually remembered someone who he hadn't seen all day. And that in itself was almighty strange. He had seen neither hair nor hide of one United States of America (or simply America, really).

Stopping in front of the door in which he had put the American, he knocked lightly on the wood, and patiently waited for the man to welcome him in. And when he did – with a very loud 'It's open' – he turned the knob and allowed himself in.

The first thing he noticed was the miss, to which he sighed. America equaled mess anywhere he went, and the Brit could already see the hours spent on cleaning the room. The worst? Possibly the soda spilled on his rug, and the chips he would find in the most unsuspecting of places. "America-"

And then he saw the suitcase open, a few clothes thrown inside without care. "America...?"

The younger nation looked at the Brit, a tired smile on his face. "Heyya, Iggy,"

Huffing and crossing his arms over his chest, England glared, but only half-heartedly, at the American. "Do not call me 'Iggy', America,"

"And... Are you leaving?" The last part came out much more brokenly than he planned, and England winced.

"Huh?" The American questioned, furrowing his brows in wonder. "Ah... Yeah."

"I'm lagging behind on my work schedule... And my boss wouldn't ask me to go back if he had other alternatives, but he doesn't. So he asked me to go back. But," America said, while gathering all his paperwork in a somewhat neat pile, and hunching his form to try and get a pen that fell on the floor. With quick steps, England was by his side, he bent and got the pen, gently putting it on the American's hand, who smiled thankfully to the Brit. "But," the American repeated to bring England's attention back to him.

"As I kinda did a lot on these last three days, I got one more week! Ain't that great, Iggy?!" He exclaimed, opening his arms wide and a huge grin plastered on his face.

Snorting, England smiled softly to the American, before lightly punching him on the shoulder. "You dork," He said "You got me worried,"

His hand clutched tightly on the younger nation's shoulder, crinkling the white button up shirt he wore. "I thought..."

"Iggy... Even if I left, I would still be your friend. Distance won't change our new-founded friendship!" America proclaimed, not knowing how happy his words made the Brit.

"Tsk, you idiot... You can't even pack your things..." He grumbled as he sat at the bed and pulled the American's – who was smiling unabashedly – suitcase and began taking all the clothes out to then put them back on, but folded and neatly. "How was your day?"

"Boooooring~" The American complained as he turned once again to his papers, pouting. He never liked paperwork, and he wouldn't begin to like it now, of all times. Blue eyes peeked over the American's shoulder, and the blond couldn't hold his tongue at seeing the Brit organizing his clothes with care. "You're a nice guy, Iggy!"

"Shut up, you idiot!" England said, red faced, and began organizing the suitcase faster due to embarrassment. "... Are we going to remain friends, America?"

Without thinking, the American said 'yup', his eyes never straying from his workload. He didn't see England smiling happily behind him. "Even if we fight...?"

"Even if we fight, Iggy, the Hero won't let you go so easily,"

England's smile diminished in size, but the thickest person yet could see it was much more heartfelt, and brighter, than the previous one. "I see,"

We still have so much to discuss, America, so bloody much... However, I will make the most of it for now, and the troubles of the future can remain there for a little while, and will we deal with these bumps on our way when we get there, England thought. His hands stilled for a moment when he found a t-shirt that was halve the UK flag and halve the US.

"Can I keep this one, America?"

"I bought for you, Iggy~ It's a present~. The Hero was going to wrap it, but you can have it now." The American said as if it was nothing, but England saw that the tip of his ears was red. "It was present to you because of our new forged friendship!"

"Forged? It seems your vocabulary is improving," "HEY!" "But thank you, America,"

The huge grin in the other face was nothing compared to how much the blue eyes of his friend expressed. "Would you like some coffee?" He asked, as he finished packing the man's suitcase and got up, his new t-shirt clutched tightly to his chest.

"Heck yeah!" The American said, grinning like a fool. "Thank ya, Iggy,"

"Do not call me 'Iggy'" England hissed to the younger man. "... America?"

"Thank you,"

When England left, he didn't try to hold in the tears. He accepted he was an emotional wreck, and - Hector told him holding it in was bad, so what the hell? He would cry as much as he wanted (as long as no other soul was in the vicinity). The Brit did not see that the American's grin gave place to a soft smile. And he certainly did not hear the younger nation's words.

"We are better off as friends, Iggy. Two nations like us can't really work out as brothers; we would fight too much, and maybe cause an even bigger rift than the one that already exists... But we can be besties, heh? We can be the best besties there are," America whispered, not sure if he wanted England to hear or not, but choosing to play it safe.

"But, hey, everything has it's time, right? So let's work on being friends first, 'cuz our friendship is so fragile and new and vulnerable like a new born baby, and then we work our way up to being besties!"

"It would be great, wouldn't it, Iggy?" He asked, knowing no one could hear him.

But he was hopeful, full of hope, it was one of his best qualities – Many of his bosses told him that. It was one of the things that made him so successful. And when England entered the room once again, it was to find America sleeping on top of his papers, a small smile on the American's lips as drool began to form on top of one apparently important paper.

Sighing, the Brit removed all the paper from under the blue-eyed man's head, and put a pillow there. And, knowing better than to try and lift America – Yeah, as if that would go over well – and than to treat him as if he was one of his children – Because he wasn't, wasn't, wasn't, wasn't –, he simply threw a cover over the sleeping form of his friend. "Night, America,"

A gurgling sound was his only answer. And England had to run out of the room lest he woke the man up with his laugh. Maybe, just maybe, things would be interesting with having America as a friend.

** (oOo)**

Night had fallen when he finally entered his own room. A figure sat in front of his lit fireplace, the mixture of orange, yellow and red flames enrapturing England's attention for a short while before he chuckled, hand tightening around the neck of the bottle of Tousled he carried while the other held America's t-shirt with care. "Alba,"

Green met green. "Took yeh long enough," The older man finally said after a while, his green eyes slid from England's eyes to fix themselves at the alcohol the blond nation brought.

Roling his eyes, the Englishman chuckled. "Sorry,"

"But Australia and New Zealand had a fight, and I had small talks with both America and Canada, separately, of course."

Scoffing, the red-head glared to the wall over England's shoulder, as if he could materialize said children to give them a good beating for making his wee Albion late. "Tsk, your damn children a troublesome,"

Sighing, England quickly made his over to Scotland, sitting next to the man – who had two empty glasses in his hands – and snuggling to him, wanting to soak up his warmth. "Give tah me, Albion,"

And England passed him the bottle while taking a glass from his grasp. "You know,"

"This is a weird way of celebrating,"

The Scot didn't answer, but England saw as the corner of his lips turned upwards. "Have you talked to _them_?"

"Aye," Scotland answered, unaffectedly, pouring two fingers of the amber liquid in each glass, and then putting the bottle near his feet on the floor. "They want yeh to call back,"

"Say they wann' hear from yer mouth, or some shit like that,"

Swirling the glass before sipping at it, the Englishman asked. "And you?"

Smirking now, the Scot put his mouth – which made England shiver a bit – and whispered, 'told 'em to fuck off.'

Laughing, England rested his head on his brother's shoulder. "Scotland,"

"Aye, lad?" The man questioned, peering through his red bangs at England.

"Thank you," _And I hope someday I can bare my heart to you without fear._

"Aye, wee Albion," The older nation said, clinking their glasses together. "Yer welcomed,"

A comfortable silence stretched between them for a good while before Scotland saw fit to break it. "How was yer consult?"

England sighed before smiling, besides Australia, New Zealand had asked him the same as well, though he had been more... Demanding; asking what kinds of food he was prohibited, which he had to eat, times, when was the next consult, etcetera. And he just knew Scotland would be the same, so he answered it all before looking at his brother and saying that she was good. And he thought she might help him.

"Good, good," The Scot said, his calloused fingers running trough England's hair, sometimes massaging his scalp, while the red-head got lost in la-la-land. "Albion,"

The half-sleeping Brit looked up, and coherently asked: "huh?"

The corner of his lips tugging involuntarily, the Scot kissed his brother temple. "Nothin'wee Albion, nothin'. Yeh just go tah sleep,"

It wasn't long before England was fast asleep, with Scotland following not too far. The thought that the next days, weeks, and months, would be hectic and, maybe, chaotic, passed by both Brit's minds as they fell in deep sleep.

** (oOo)**

Ok. Sorry for the delay, but a lot f things happened, and I couldn't make the dead-line. So~ I make this chapter extra long! Seriously, normally, I would make it 4000 words (because it took 2 weeks), _however_, this one is - wait for it - **6500 words**. Hope it compesates for the delay, and for being posted on a Sunday night. Heh, sorry.

As it is, my wrists are killing me, so I will edit anything latter on (there must be a loooot of mistakes as I didn't gave even a second glance) and will put the answer to the reviews of previous chapters.

**Poll to decide which story I should do next! ALSO! Just to warn y'all: I won't immediately start to post the next long-story. I work with lot's of stories at the same time (Originals, mostly, and one or another hetalia fanfic), and I really want to have more time to work on the chapters, so I PROBABLY will be posting by end of August or beginning of September. And the updates will be MONTHLY. The plots are bellow for you to think about it (just tell me by review)**

**1)**

**England wishes that someone would find the Arthur in him. However, as time pass by and his wish doesn't come true, the Englishman begins a spiraling and torturous fall into depression. "I want someone to see beyond my façade, beyond this walls I built... Is it too much to ask for?"**

- Angst/Drama/Hurt-Comfort/No romance

**2)**

**England begins to have weird dreams. Great historical figures of his past talk to him, and advise him to change before it's too late. Why? What's going to happen if he doesn't change? Can he trust these dreams? And why does it feel like something terrible is going to happen?**

- Drama/Suspense/Family/Romance

Romantic interest? Undecided.

**~ I have three or four more plots, but these two are the ones I am most excited about (and another one I will write as a one-shot), so these are the options. Either or, guys. And I will be extremely happy to write about 1 or 2, doesn't really matter... Just wanna hear your opinions...**

**OfSilveryFeathers.**


	14. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Seriously? Not mine. (Belongs to the amazing Hidekaz Himaruya)

Pairing: ScotEng.

Warnings: ... None, I think.

_~ Notes at the end of the chapter._

I WILL REVISE AND EDIT THIS CHAPTER (should the need arise) AT A LATER DATE. Thanks.

**(oOo)**

The house seemed very silent without America, they all realized. And England knew that, soon – and certainly sooner than he wanted to –, the others would have to leave as well. Canada, Australia, New Zealand... They couldn't stay forever. Especially the last two; they lived quite far. And England knew they hadn't brought any work along. So he assumed they would have to pack and go somewhere between this and the next week.

Looking at the chatting nations in front of him; Australia and New Zealand discussing who had right's to the last piece of fish's filet, Canada quietly nibbling his vegetables, and Scotland glaring at all the previous three while nursing a bottle of beer, England felt contentment. It was an alien feeling, especially in these last few years.

Family, he thought with his heart tightening inside his rib cage, they looked like a family. A real family.

He carefully put his utensils down; afraid they would fall off his trembling hands. England stared a bit longer at the picture in front of him. _This_ was exactly what he wanted. It wasn't asking much, was it?

"Mom? You alright there?" Australia's worried voice pierced through his wandering thoughts. "Hey, Zezi... You think mom's okay? He seems kinda... Is he crying?!"

Bringing his hands to cover his face, England sobbed. He felt Scotland's strong arms circling his shoulders, and his brother's concerned voice asking him if there was something wrong, if he felt any pain, why he cried. It just made him sob harder.

When Canada approached and asked if he wanted anything, Australia and New Zealand not far behind and seemingly equally worried, England finally stopped hiding his face, which, by now, was probably blotched and red. And, any other day, he would be mortified, rather being six-feet under than caught looking this pathetic, but not today. Not today. As it was, he simply opened his arms to his children. Even if they weren't his colonies anymore, they were _his children_. They _still_ were _his children_! They called him papa, and they called him mom. And they worried about him. And they actually liked to spend time with him. 'His, his, his' he wanted to say. And he actually didn't realize he was chanting that out loud.

They seemed unsure of what to do, but England wouldn't give them time to think. Really, he himself didn't know what he was thinking – if he was thinking at all. He just wanted to hug his children. At least, they didn't seem to mind as they didn't resist – were quite complacent, really. As if they too, had been waiting for this; they too, wanted this. And it wasn't long before England was comfortably hugging his children, his sons. Scotland, awkwardly, still half hugged him; the Scot's chin resting on top of his head.

It was oddly perfect.

He didn't know how long they all remained on that awkward group hug; maybe a few minutes, maybe half an hour. England still found it insufficient when they parted, and he still had a few tears prickling down his cheeks. Canada gently gave him a handkerchief to dry his eyes. And Australia and New Zealand fidgeted a few steps back, prepared to act should something arise. Scotland, however, did not let go of his shoulders. "Yeh alright, lad?"

Sniffs were all England could muster, and with a watered smile, he gave a nod to show he was okay.

"Yeh sure?" The Scot asked gruffly. Another nod, this time surer, was England's response.

"Very well," Scotland said, still eyeing the younger Brit warily, as if waiting for him to have another crisis at any moment. Looking up at Australia, though, he said: "What are yeh brats waiting for? Go back tah yer food!"

And lowly, so only England would hear, he whispered: "Yeh have tah eat, as well, Albion,"

Squeezing his shoulders a bit in what England knew was meant to be a comforting gesture, the Scot let go of England's body. "I'm gonna get anotha' bottle of beer tah me, y'all behave demon brats!" Scotland said, the last part to the ex-colonies, before scooting out of the room and going in the kitchen.

"H-How was yo'r day?" England asked between sniffs and shaky breaths, his green eyes meeting two pairs very similar to his own but for a few specks of hazel in them and one pair of amethyst. "So?" He insisted, a bit angrily, which showed in his sniffing.

Australia, he saw, tried to reign in himself – really, he did. But he wasn't known for his self control, and soon he was laughing to his heart's content. Surprisingly, he was followed by New Zealand, who chuckled, and Canada, who laughed quietly. He should be mad at them, he normally would, but he wasn't. He actually joined in. And the dining room, where the dinners tended to be stalled and silent, was filled to the brim with laugh.

Somehow it seemed just right to have the room so lively.

And that's the scene that Scotland walked on six minutes later. Four hysterical English-speaking nations who the Scotsman doubted knew why they were laughing to begin with. He decided to not even question, just sat by England's side and patted his back until he calmed down. "So," England said, eyes shining with amusement "What did you three do today?"

"AH! Zezi spent all his day in the library, mom!" Australia said, stretching his arms over his head "I went to the zoo! They had some wicked animals there! I'm thinking of getting some~"

Growling, the New Zealander all but snapped at the Australian. "Don't call me Zezie, you idiot! And who in their right state of mind would let you have an animal!? You can barely take care of yourself!"

"I caught up to some work, and slept, mostly." Canada quietly added.

"I can call you whatever I want... Zezie." Australia threw at New Zealand. "Mom~ Can I have a monkey? They seemed-"

From there the Oceanic brothers got into another argument, in which they shouted and threatened each other. When England had enough he sent both to their respective rooms without desert. And no pouting from Australia would change his mind. So with a 'good-night, mom' they went upstairs, still arguing and blaming one another.

Turning to Canada, England smiled slightly and asked if he would want pudding. "Yes, please" The Canadian answered, then got up and began to gather the dirty plates and tableware.

"Scotland?" England asked to the halfway drunk red head, whose answer was a very loud 'Aye! Aye!'. Chuckling, England stood up, sniffed one last time, straightened his clothes and went to retrieve the desert.

He took his chance and cleaned his face in the kitchen's faucet.

After they all ate, Scotland repeating, at least, three times, Canada excused himself and went to bed. So only the British brothers remained behind. "Let's move to the living room?" England asked softly to the bulkier man.

"Aye," He answered. "Let's,"

The fireplace was soon lit, and they comfortably sat in the couch. The silence was a welcomed one, and soon England found himself dozing off. "Go tah sleep, Albion,"

"You always do that, since yeh were a wee lad; tried to stay awake past your bedtime..."

"There were no bedtimes for me."

"Heard yeh priests didnae like yeh running 'round during the night,"

"Shut up,"

The loud and raspy laugh, that made Scotland's chest tremble, was comforting to England who snuggled closer to his brother. "Alba,"

"Aye?" The man asked, glancing at the mop of blond hair belonging to England.

"I love this. This... This is what I wanted."

Confused, Scotland frowned. What was wee Albion referring to? "What? What is, Albion?"

"Family,"

Yes, family. What he wanted most. One of his principal personal reasons to try conquering the world... Yes, money and power and influence had been heavy factors, but if he conquered the world... The world would be his, and they all – the other nations – would have to stay with him. He had been too young to know you can't force someone to stay by your side. "Family, Alba, that's what I always wanted,". If you use force, they will eventually break free. He should have known, because he did the same.

Rome, Denmark, France. He broke free from them. And his ex-colonies did the same with him. The difference, however, was that somehow... Somehow he created a... Bond – Bond? Was that it? – With them. To the point they still called him father (or mother). "I don't deserve them, Alba,"

He turned his pleading eyes to his brother, in search for an answer. The red head put his calloused hand on the top of England's hand. "Ah. Yeh can be so stupid som'times, wee Albion,"

"Yeh don' understand, do yeh?" The Scot asked rhetorically, his hand sliding down his brother's head to his nape, massaging the scalp. "Yeh never was like the other colonizing nation, Albion,"

"Essentially, yeh were no different... No, no, yeh were different. Yeh gave 'em som'thing in exchange for being under yeh rule, and thus yeh shaped the modern world. Most of all, yeh gave 'em their want for freedom, wee Albion. But that's naeh important. What's important is that yeh... Yeh as yerself, and I'm not sayin' as the UK or as England, but as yeh,"

"Acted different towards 'em. Yeh were a parent. Donnae dare tell me it isn't true!" He reprimanded when he saw the younger Brit open his mouth to protest. "I saw yeh Albion" He continued, pulling at the blonde's hair. "Yeh were a parent, and, for that, they loved you,"

"They couldn't stay with you forever, but... They loved yeh. Still do."

"I don't think I deserve this," England finally said after a while. "I really don't"

"Well, it's not up to yeh to decide, so shut up and accept their love." Scotland said, resting his hand on England's shoulder and pulling the shorter man in his lap. "Yeh got yer family, why are yeh trying to find something wrong with it? Enjoy it, wee Albion,"

With the corner of his lips turning upwards in a gentle smile, England shifted closer to Scotland, so he was glued to the older Brit. "Okay,"

He felt Scotland hands stilling for a bit, as if he didn't quite know where to put them, but it didn't take very long for the Scot to figure out if that was the case. One rested on the small of England's back, the other on the mid of his tight. "Go tah sleep, Albion," He all but ordered, but England could hear that he was a bit flustered. England almost tittered, but he refrained, knowing that it would hurt Scotland's pride. "Good-Night, Alba,"

England dreamed with odd things. No, not quite dreamed. More like remembered, actually. He remembered when they had dropped America off at the airport in the morning of this very same day – And he gave him his gift.

**(oOo)**

The place was full of people, but that wasn't surprising. It was, after all, an airport. People passed by them without looking twice, in a hurry to get to their destinies, be they inside or outside a plane. Names were screamed from 'Family O'Neil' to 'Ms. Ana Paula' and 'Mr. Takamura', and the sound of wheels against the grey marbled – was it? – floor made England cringe a bit. On his side Scotland seemed irritated, maybe annoyed, and with his bed hair, dark frown, scowl and glare, he was making a few poor sods shit their pants. The Scot's arm's was resting over his shoulders, and, by the way Scotland flexed it from time to time, it was the only thing that stopped him from hitting the main cause of all his fretfulness; America. So England let his brother be. He didn't, after all, want to cause a ruckus in the middle of the airport.

Why America had to buy a flight for seven in the morning, meaning they had to leave the house before the sun was even up, was beyond England. Scotland, who always went to bed at midnight, minimum, slept less than three hours, and was less than thrilled. "MOM!" Australia shouted behind him, and England peeked over his shoulder at the sleep-deprived Aussie. "MOM! Is that James Bond?! For REAL? I thought-"

The worse, England knew, was that the boy was serious. The amazement in his eyes said enough. And he knew that that was a result of not sleeping enough. Australia was hyper; especially after all the coffee he drank in the breakfast, and had been saying the strangest of things for the past hour. "It's a paperboard figure, Henry" He answered tiredly. "And it couldn't possibly be James Bond because... It's not James Bond, Henry, he is a fictional character, remember?"

"WHA!" The Aussie exclaimed, visibly deflating. Then he looked at New Zealand, who was brooding at the side of their small party, and the glint in his eyes said that, soon enough, England would have to intervene in a fight between the two of them. The Englishman sighed, slumping forward slightly.

The only one who seemed to be in high spirits, not surprisingly, was America. And looking at the American, who was practically skipping ahead of them, England smiled. "Alfred!" He called "Slow down, you git!"

An obnoxious laugh left the blue-eyed man's lips; nonetheless, however, he slowed down his pace. England was glad the American complied, and said so. To which America laughed and said it was nothing. He was the Hero after all. England rolled his eyes at the man, and it didn't take long for them to fall in a familiar banter. Name calling, sneering, scowling, sticking one's tongue out; people must have been surprised in seeing two man, who looked like they were in their twenties, acting like children. But, for once, England did not care for what others might think, and simply enjoyed having fun with his friend.

In a few hours, he knew, the American would no longer be here, at arm's length. And although he would like to say he trusted the man to keep his promise... He had been betrayed enough times to have a nagging voice telling him this wouldn't last. Shut up, he told it. But it kept pestering him. And England was sure by the looks America was now shooting him that he had noticed something was weird. But, and England was thankful for that, he chose not to meddle. For now, at least.

"America," He said while adjusting his brother's arm, which was becoming a bit too heavy. "Go and dispatch your baggage, yes? Me and the boys," And here he looked over at Australia and New Zealand who, surely enough, had began to fight. "I will have to make a few phone calls for us to be able to pass the Customs... So go straight there after you finish here, and we will meet you."

Laughing loudly, the man agreed. And with a 'See ya in a jiffy, Artie~!' he was gone, running like the lunatic he was and startling more than a few people. "Git." England muttered while staring at his shrinking form. "Don't call me Artie"

Sighing, he shook his head and snapped at the Oceanic brother's to stop their childishness lest they wanted to feel his wrath. "I'm not above punishing you two," He warned, and that seemed to work well enough, for soon they were ignoring each other. "Good,"

After a few instants, however, he noticed they were missing someone. "Alba," He called, pinching his brother's arm so he would be a little more alert. Although the action was received with a snarl, the Scot was now awake. "Whot?" He asked while rubbing the spot England had pinched. "Where is Canada?" The blond Brit asked without eating around the bush. "I know you were the last one he spoke with when we stopped at that vending machine, but-"

"That's all? That's why yeh woke me? The brat went to the bathroom" The Scot said, setting his arm over England's shoulder once again, and dozing off again. Huffing, England supposed he wouldn't get more any more helpful tips (though this one alone was extremely helpful, and calmed what could have been, otherwise, a full blown panic attack) from Scotland. "Thanks" He said.

Quickly sending a message to Canada of where he could find them, he chose to wait for the amethyst nation. Who showed up in a hurry, and clearly a bit distressed. Damn Scotland for not saying anything, Canada must have thought they left him behind. Glaring at the red head man leaning on him, England was with half a mind of letting him meet the ground face first.

But he couldn't, simply because Scotland was dead on his feet, and he had agreed to come to the airport with them even though he had been tired. And he had known what, or where, Canada had been. And he himself was to blame for not noting Canada's absence earlier. And as such he apologized profusely to the Canadian, who easily accepted with a smile. "It's alright, papa," He said "I'm used to it."

"But you shouldn't" England countered, getting ticked off. "I'm sorry, Matthew. It won't happen again, I promise you."

And he intended to keep his promise. Especially after the surprised look in Canada's eyes, as if he found it surprising someone cared if he was forgotten or not. "But papa," He tried to argue.

"No," England said, ending the discussion, and then held Canada's hand in his own, squeezing it. "It's not okay to be forgotten, Canada. And we will talk more about this later. Maybe not today, but mark my words."

The Canadian nodded, and shyly squeezed England's hand back. The very small smile that curled on the Canadian's lips was enough to make England's heart twist and turn, regret making the Englishman feel sick for not realizing this sooner. And for being one of many who went along with such a poor treatment of Canada. And he was surely the worst, because that was his child. No more, he decided. He had wallowed in self-pity for too long, and become blind to those around him.

No more.

"Henry! Gabriel! Come along!" He called, said nations immediately responding by accelerating their paces. "I will make a phone call and then we will have free pass," He explained "We will meet America, and stay with him until it's time for him to-"

"To go." He finished, ignoring how he had choked on the last part. "Gabriel," He said, looking at New Zealand, whose eyes snapped at him as soon as his name was called. "Would you mind to run an errand for me?"

"No," Was the answer, followed by a small smile, and the brightening of the New Zealander eyes. "It would be a pleasure, mother,"

He whispered the instructions in the fluffy haired man's ear. He knew he could trust New Zealand. "MOM~ what is it that you asked Gabe to do?" Australia asked, curious.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Henry. Now, why don't you help me by taking this weight off my shoulders?" England asked, or rather, ordered, the Aussie, giving pointed looks at the red-head who now drooled over him.

Snickering, Australia got the Scot's free arm and threw it over his own shoulder, easing the weigh out of England's shoulder blades. Canada giggled at the Englishman's sigh of bliss when Scotland was finally leaning on the Australian's and not him. "Heh, he's heavy, mom! Didn't know you had enough strength in you to carry him for so long...!" The Aussie exclaimed loudly.

"One more word, Henry, and I will bend you over my knee and show you how much strength I still have in my arm." England threatened, and had to smirk when the Aussie gulped and all but run to where America waited for them, a wide grin on the American's face.

Australia needed not to know he would never hurt a hair in his pretty little head. Though by the wink the man sent him he already knew. Smiling, he joined the energetic duo with Canada still holding his hand.

It wasn't long before New Zealand was back carrying a plastic bag, which he promptly gave to England. Who, in turn, walked to America and all but pushed it in the American's arms. "Here" He said "My present to you, in honor of our... New 'forged' friendship, Alfred."

Next thing England knew he was on the ground, looking at the white ceiling, and Australia was laughing hysterically, Canada, he realized, was next to him and America on top of him, babbling so fast and moving his arms so much England couldn't understand, and much less follow, what he was saying. "Thank you," America whispered in the end. "Thank you, Arthur Kirkland, England, Britain – my friend. Thank you."

They both would pretend that they did not cry, pretend that something fell in their eyes as they hugged the living daylights out of each other.

"You're welcomed," England somehow managed to choke out. "You're welcomed,"

When America's flight was finally called, he had his present – a blue, red and white hand knitted scarf with 'USUK' in black on the middle and, under that, 'friends' also in black – wrapped around his neck. He seemed genuinely happy with his gift, so England felt proud and happy, although he wasn't showing very much. "Smile any wider and yer face will be stuck," Scotland grumbled next to him, than, looking at the younger Brit face, he asked: "What did the brat said to yeh before he run off?"

Looking at the curious green eyes of his brother, England thought about not saying anything at all. But, knowing he wouldn't be able to hold in for much longer, he answered truthfully: "He promised to call, or mail, everyday. To keep contact."

'_It's a Hero's promise, Iggy!_'

"Heh, not bad for a brat, aye?" Scotland said after a few seconds, his arms circling England's waist. "Not bad at all,"

_'Will you call? Will you write, America?'_

_'Everyday! I told ya! I won't give up so easily on ya, Iggy!_

_'Promise?'_

_'I will call everyday! Or mail ya! Or we can Skype! But I will! We will talk at least once every single day, Iggy!'_

"No, not bad at all, Alba... Let's go home," He agreed with a smile on his lips, a few tears falling from his eyes as he saw he could no longer see America. And turning to his children, he beckoned them closer. "Let's go home, yes?" A quiet 'aye' and a kiss on his temple were his only response. And all he needed.

**(oOo)**

England abruptly woke up by the sound of the phone ringing. And quickly, but carefully as to not wake Scotland, he got up and walked to the hallway. "Hello?" He asked, pressing the phone against his ear. "Hell-"

"America," He whispered surprised. The man had called earlier to say he had arrived, but couldn't talk much because he had a 'shit-ass mountain' of paperwork. England had thought he wouldn't call anymore. So it was a pleasant surprise. "How are you?"

"I? I am fine- Yes, yes. No, no problems at all. You know... How is work?"

He laughed quietly when the American began to complain and whiny on the other side of the line. "Yes, yes, well, no one likes to work... True. Germany just might."

"Canada? No, I'm afraid he is sleeping. Everybody is sleeping. It's already late here, you git. Five hour difference. No... You being the Hero doesn't change a thing, you idiot. Time zones are- Forget it. Let's talk about something else before you manage to- Ok. I understand... Let's change subjects, yes? I'm a bit drunk and not in the mood for your crazy talks,"

And so they did. And they talked for a few more minutes about inconsequential things before America asked what, apparently, he had wanted to ask a long time ago: his consult. He had, after all, a session with Dr. Greenhill this very same day. "Yes, yes, it was fine."

"I do believe he is helping."

And he told a resumed, much resumed and overly censured, version of his session with Dr. Greenhill. He didn't, after all, feel comfortable divulging more than that. And, as such, simply wouldn't. "He is... Okay. Just infuriating at times..."

England, thinking about his doctor, couldn't help but drown in the memories of his afternoon with the man. No, not afternoon, an hour. But one hour seemed excruciatingly longer when he was in the presence of one Hector Greenhill.

**(oOo)**

"I'm happy you actually came, Arthur" Dr. Greenhill – Hector – said as a way of greeting, his hand warm against England's cold one as they shook them. The smile England gave him was forced. He was nervous, he was afraid, he was embarrassed, and he most certainly had not wanted to come. His pride, however, had not let him run. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Greenhill"

Making a 'no-no' sign with his index finger, the doctor looked straight in England's eyes before saying with a smile: "Hector. You have to call me Hector, Arthur."

Trying to protest against such familiarity was, once again, fruitless. And Dr. Greenhill countered all arguments he gave with his final one: "My office, my rules."

England had to bit his tongue to stop himself from asking, mockingly, if the man had six years old. Sighing, however, he only nodded his head in defeat. "Very well, then, Hector,"

As they made themselves comfortable on the same chairs they had occupied a week prior, England realized a few things. The first, and probably more important, was that he had nothing to say. Or, at the very least, he could think of nothing. And every topic he came up with seemed to be lacking in one way or another. Not to say he knew how to breach them, for he didn't. So they both sat, saying absolutely nothing to each other for, approximately, fifteen minutes.

England had already looked at every corner and cranny in the room; from the fluffy rug to the coffee wallpaper; from the toys in one corner to the books lining the shelves. And then he had began simply stare at anything for a few seconds before moving on; the door, Hector, the pillows, the lamp, Hector again, then finally his lap. His hands, which rested there, had its fingers intertwined, the knuckles white from the strength each finger put on another. "Arthur?"

Startle, he looked up. "Yes?"

"Is there anything you would like us to discuss?"

While easing his fingers, England thought about it, but, again, nothing came to his mind. And he informed Dr. Green- Hector of such. "Is there anything you would like me to disclose about, Dr?"

"Hector" The man correct with a small smile "And no... No, wait. I heard you have quite an assortment of individuals in your house? A Scotsman, a Canadian, a New Zealander and an Australian... Would like to discuss them?"

Tightening his jaw, England looked at the doctor for a few seconds before diverting his gaze. "No," He finally answered, eyes' narrowing even though the object of his anger was not being targeted. "No I do not want to talk about them".

"Arthur," The man started, and England immediately tensed. "We won't talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable, but I cannot help you if you do not share something with me..."

"I ask about them because I know they must be important to you and, maybe, an easier topic for you to talk about... We still have forty three minutes to go, if you're interested. And we may pass it in silence if you so wish, for silence is also a form of communication"

And that's exactly what they did; remain in silence. At one point, Greenhill got up and asked if England would like a cup of tea, which he kindly accepted. "Earl Grey would be highly appreciated if you had any, Dr- Hector,"

The try to say his name instead of by his title seemed to brighten the doctor up, why, exactly, England had absolutely no idea. But he would go along with it if it got him well-prepared cuppas.

With a smile, and a genuine one at that, he received his steaming hot cup of tea. "Thank you, Hector"

The doctor grinned. "Why! You are quite welcomed, Arthur!"

As they sipped at their drinks, they made small talk. England talked a bit about the house he lived in, more or less of how it was decorated, although being very vague; about his work (being, once again, vague); complained a bit about a few nations like France and Spain; and gushed for ten minutes straight about a lot of his children.

As he rested his tea cup, England was well aware of the stunt Greenhill had pulled. And he had to commend the man. It was an intelligent technique, even though England suspected it might border on something not quite legal. "It seems our time is almost over, Arthur,"

"Greenhill," England said abruptly, somehow feeling the need to share. Why, however, was beyond him "America left today, went back to his own country. I can't hog him all to myself, now, can I? Oh well. He went, and I find myself very..."

"Saddened?" The doctor tried to help, and England inclined his head in thanks.

"Saddened, yes. Normally I would already be in tears, by now. I don't, however, have any urge to cry, not about you know..."

"It's probably because, somehow, you know he didn't leave you behind, not really. He is not here, but he is here. Do I make any sense? Well. Arthur, you are – how can I say it? – Very... You become very emotional at the thought of being abandoned. It's easy to see that if one listens to you talking about you children, or your brothers. You have trust issues. And forgive if I am being too blunt" Hector said, folding his hands on his lap and turning pensive eyes towards England. "What you tell me, however, shows a small improvement. Something America – can I call him like this? – did has made you trust him above others. Or as much as you would trust one of your own children... Oh! If I am not being too overly curious, why do you not count America as one of your children, Arthur?"

"America renounced every connection and bond that might tie us together when he declared – and then gained trough war – his independency. In the muddy battlefield he proclaimed he was no brother of mine. And thus, my little brother though without the same blood, ceased to be." England answered, too stunned with what he heard to really do anything else. Although he was mortified when he actually realized he had answered the man. "I... I must go."

"Arthur?" Hector called right as he was about to close the door behind himself. "I think it's essential for you to remember that... Although this happened a long time ago, it might be best if you and America sited down and talked about it. It's not healthy to hold onto such depressing feelings and memories for so long. You have done so for centuries, maybe millennia. I hope next week you feel in a more sharing mood so we can discuss more, and maybe see what to do to improve how you deal with all the negatives memories and feeling you hold in."

"Also... I know you have trust issues, family issues, and, although only a guess for now, depr- Anyway... What I want to say is that... I will give you time and space, Arthur, but I hope – truly, I do – that you will cooperate, that you will try your hardest. Will you?"

Great, he thought bitterly, I am crying. _Again. _Just bloody fucking great. "Yeah," England said lamely "Until next time". And then he closed the door behind him with more force than necessary.

When he met Scotland outside the office he went straight to his brother's arms, looking for comfort. He couldn't understand how every time he came to this blasted man he ended up in tears, be it because of memories or something the damn man said. He allowed his brother to all but carry him out of the waiting room and to the street, where they got a cab and headed home. He allowed Scotland's soothing words to tranquilize him. And he allowed himself to cry as much as he wanted to. All the while cursing Dr. Hector Greenhill, and himself for being so overly emotional.

**(oOo)**

The constant whinnying of America on the phone brought him back to the present. 'ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME IGGY!' the other man shouted. 'ARE YOU IGNORING ME, IGGYYYY!', 'THAT'S REALLY MEAN IGGY~', 'IGGYYY~!', and so on, and so on. If he had been in front of England, the Brit would have whacked him over the head already.

"Terribly sorry, America, I lost myself in memori- Shut the fuck up!" England exclaimed when the American made a particularly offensive – to England, at least – remark about his age. Somehow making it seem as if England was extremely old. "I will cut your tongue, America! I'm-! I'm not _THAT_ old, you bloody git!"

"Not even _China_ is that old! And he is the oldest of us... I think at least." He said, furrowing his brows at the boisterous laugh he heard. "I hope your lungs fail you"

And even though England was annoyed, he couldn't deny he was also equally amused. He knew he and America's friendship would be one of teasing and threats, and based on their mutual need to one up on the other. In a friendly way, of course. And so he was a bit upset when the American said he had to go, but, understanding, he bid his farewell, and hang off.

Walking back to the living room, where Scotland was still deeply asleep, England hummed an old song, probably a lullaby, though he couldn't remember the lyrics. "Alba," He called cautiously as he reentered the chamber. The flames on the fireplace, he saw, were still strong; the tongues of fire dancing and twisting lively, brightly. England smiled softly as he approached the slumbering red head. "Alba, it's not good to sleep on the couch," He said, bending over him and resting one hand on his brother's shoulder.

When snores were the only response he got, England tightened his hold a bit and shook him gently. "Alba, wake up,"

Huffing, the blond straightened himself. "I will have to carry you again, won't I?"

Resigned, though, England simply bent over his bulkier fellow Brit again, threw one of the man's arms over his shoulders, and began the arduous process of carrying them both – for he counted himself – to his room. "Damn you, Alba... I expect one of Scotland's finest after this stunt..." He complained. The curling of his lips upwards and the twinkling in his eyes, however, made it clear he was kidding. "Just kidding..." He said, clearly not expecting an answer as he kept looking forth.

"I like to take care of you once in a while, Alba" He confessed as he finally put his brother on their bed, plopping himself down right after, not even bothering to take off his clothes as he snuggled to his brother's chest. "Night, Alba"

The sound of grumbling, as well as his brother turning and tossing a bit, was the last things he heard. A flash of green and drowsy smile the last things he saw. And the feel of his brother's muscled arm circling his waist and pulling him even closer the last thing he felt before sweet darkness claimed him.

**(oOo)**

So... Here is the new chapter! I'm sorry for, once again, being late. As it is I spent 5 days in Buenos Aires (Argentina) without computer and ipad, thus I wrote, basically, nothing. To make up for it I wrote EXTRA (again). This chapter is the second longest with 5900 words. And I am finding that writing long chapter is addicting. Seriously. I can't write 2000 words anymore! I find them small, and feel bad. So expect next chapter to be, at least, 4000 thousand words.

**Now, to my cute and awesome reviewers:**

_HoshiUta: First of all, thanks for your review~! Second, I really think England would have cute/parental relationship with the countries of the Commonwealth (I imagine him as an awesome mom/dad XD), so I am really glad you liked their interactions. Thanks! *hugs*_

_Ayaki-Chan: Thanks for the review! And for voting J_

_Shiary: Thanks! I was really worried about the consultations part, you know? I was fretting they wouldn't be realistic enough. But I am relieved I achieved that, at the very least. Again, thanks!_

_Spinam: What be romance? I can think about it. X)_

_Sora Resi: Do you? So I hope this one also makes you happy! :D_

_Violetdemon: Oh my gosh! You made me blush. Thank you very – very, very, very, very – much. I also love Scotland as a loving sibling, it's cute~! And who doesn't have Britaincest as a guilty pleasure? They are so... Sinfully perfect XD Thanks for the awesome review J_

_Byakusharinnegan: I love your reviews, seriously. And I am happy you like both :D_

_Flavinja: THANKS! *hugs* AH! I am glad you liked the therapy; I was thinking I was going to screw it up... Happy it didn't happen ;) And also happy you liked the family interactions, there was more in this chapter and more therapy too! Hopefully, you will like it as well :)_

**The poll is closed, thanks for everyone who voted. The winner was the second plot 2. Again, thank you very, very much for everyone who voted and shared their opinions.**

* _Fallentes Insula passed 10000 views_. This is more than I ever hoped for, or even dared to hope for. Thanks to every single one of you. To the ones who reviewed, who faved, who followed. Thanks to ones who simply read (Though some words of encouragement would be welcomed, just a 'keep going' or 'cool', I swear, nothing too extravagant XD). _Thanks_.

OfSilveryFeathers


End file.
